


What Remains In the Ashes

by scifigrl47



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Canon Divergence, Evil stepfather and Evil Stepbrothers, Fairy Godmothers, M/M, My instructions were to create a heist and jam as many women into it as I could, Some major canon divergence, Sword and Sorcery AU, and I'm going to do it, masked balls, royal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: For my second Marvel Trumps Hate auction, I rewrite Cinderella as a heist.So...  Cinderella, but the ball's just cover for a well-orchestrated theft from the royal treasury.It's a shame the prince is such a distraction...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, look. My second Marvel Trumps Hate winner requested a heist, and I'm... Not good at action sequences. I'm really not good at them. But this seemed to fit, and they were kind enough to agree to let me run with this concept.
> 
> This version of Cinderella will be borrowing from a bunch of different sources, including, but not limited to, the Disney version, the Sondheim verion of "into the Woods," and both the original Oscar and Hammerstein Cinderella, and especially the Disney/Brandy remake, which remains my favorite version. I mean. Bernadette Peters AND Whitney Houston AND Jason Alexander AND Brandy AND Victor Garber what the heck was this movie even? Anyway, I loved it and I will not hear a single bad thing about it, shoo with you.
> 
> This story will likely involve steampunkish elements of machinery and technology, as well as magic. We will be mixing rifles and swords, magic spells and trains, rudimentary trucks and horses. I will not be trying to fix this in a particular time, and I'm not going to be nitpicking 'is this a word a character would say at this time' because this time does not, and never has, existed. Namor's gonna be there in his booty shorts, there will be black people other than the Wakandan delegation, everyone's going to be eating curry or pelmeni at some back alley street stall. If any of this is going to drive you up the wall, this may not be the story for you. Okay? Thanks!
> 
> We're going to do some broad warnings. This story will include emotional, verbal and physical abuse within a family setting. There will be gaslighting and deliberate attempts to manipulate a victim. I will warn on specific chapters about these particular problems, but it will be pervasive in this particular fic. Cinderella is, after all, about a child who is abused by their family.

Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there was a prince, who was lost and forgotten. Once upon a time, there was a prince who had forgotten. Once upon a time, there was a prince, who was seeking his way back home.

Once upon a time, there was a boy, who had lost everything, including his home. Once upon a time, there was a boy who was desperately seeking the truth, and a way to outrun his past.

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom, that had stretched beyond its own reach, a kingdom that pressed against its own borders, even as its borders began to push back. Once upon a time, there was a kingdom that stretched so high, it risked falling into its own shadow.

Once upon a time, there was a king who died. Once upon a time, there was a kingdom, still held sway by its once and future king. Once upon a time, the man that killed him did not know he had not succeeded.

Once upon a time, but time is broken.

*

“I think we’re lost.”

Steve shook his head. “We’re not lost,” he said. The road stretched out in front of them, the dirt pounded flat by thousands of feet that had been this way before.

Shuri nodded. “Then you remember the way?” she asked, voice amused.

Steve gave her a look. “No,” he said. “I have a map.”

“But do you remember how to read it?” Shuri grinned at him, her brilliant eyes dancing. 

“Well, once I figured out which way to hold it, it was a lot easier,” he said. His horse pawed at the dirt, displeased with the delay, and Steve leaned forward in the saddle, patting him on the neck. “I know, Nomad, I know, but we have to wait for the others.”

Shuri made a face. “Actually, we don’t. Race me?” she asked, wheeling her horse in a quick, tight circle. Her braids swung behind her in a cresting wave, the silver beads on the ends catching the sunlight. “The road is straight enough, and-”

“No,” Okoye said as she passed, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders squared. Her horse looked neither left or right as she passed, just as uninterested in the rest of the world as her rider was. 

Chuckling, Shuri darted after her, swinging from one side of the road to the other in fast, sweeping arcs. “Do you not trust me, Okoye?”

Okoye’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. “I know you too well for that, your Highness,” she said, and Shuri burst out laughing. Okoye glanced in her direction, her expression melting into affection in an instant. “And value you too highly.”

“Too late, I know how you see me now,” Shuri said, her teeth flashing in a bright smile. She pressed the back of one fluttering hand to her forehead, reveling in the melodrama of it. “Our friendship will never be the same.”

Okoye’s eyes rolled up at the sky, but a faint smile still clung to the edges of her mouth. “I imagine you will bear up nobly, your Highness.”

Shuri peeked at her from under her fingers. “I should find it easier to bear the grief if there was-”

“No,” Okoye said, and Steve had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.

Shuri’s hand flopped back to her side. “Do you see this?” she asked Steve, gesturing at Okoye. “Do you see how I am treated?” Without waiting for him to reply, she turned back to Okoye. “And stop calling me highness.” She swung her horse around Steve, putting him between her and Okoye. She leaned forward, peering around him. “I only agreed to come along only because here, no one knows me.” She tossed her free hand in the air. Her horse, calm by nature and well trained, didn’t seem to notice the twitch of her reins. “My holiday from myself.”

“Ah, of course,” Okoye said, her head bobbing in a nod. “And what will we be using this vacation to do?”

“Whatever I please,” Shuri said. Her head came up, her lips twitching in a gamine smile as she looked from Okoye to Steve and back. “So. Shall we race?”

“No,” Okoye said, her voice taking on a firm edge, but it was too late. With a sharp cry, Shuri touched her horse’s sides with her heels, barely a brush of her boots, but the mare lunged forward like she’d been shot out of a cannon. 

Okoye muttered a curse under her breath as Shuri galloped ahead of them, her body bent low over her horse’s neck. “Highness, you should not-” But Shuri just raised a hand, waving after her.

Steve shook his head. “I’ll go,” he said.

Okoye’s head rolled in his direction, her eyes narrowed into slits. “You,” she said, her voice full of doom. “I blame you for all of this.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve said, snapping his reins. “I do, too.”

He was pretty sure she was laughing as he shot off after Shuri, Nomad’s hooves flying over the stones of the road. Steve leaned forward, his body hugging tight to the arch of the horse’s neck, reveling in the speed as they shot down the straight length of the road, dust rising in clouds behind him. Ahead of him, he could see Shuri, who was sitting straight upright in her saddle, her hands in the air. “Hold your reins!” he yelled.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, the fabric of her scarves fluttering in her wake. “I won’t fall,” she said as Steve pulled up next to her, Nomad dancing in place as he slowed down. His tail flicked through the air, and Shuri leaned over to stroke a hand over his neck. “Oh, you poor boy, you just want to run, don’t you?”

Nomad tossed his head, and Shuri’s mare did a dancing side-step, pulling away from him. “He can walk,” Steve said, patting Nomad’s neck. The horse’s ears flicked back towards him, and Steve smiled. “Yes, I’m talking about you, you foul tempered nag.”

“He is so unkind to you,” Shuri cooed to the horse. “Never lets you have a bit of fun.”

“We can’t afford fun,” Steve told her. Above them, the wind rattled the tree branches, and he struggled not to tense at the sound. “Your brother will have both our heads if anything happens to you, you know that.”

Shuri rolled her eyes. “No, he won’t. You know why?”

“Because he knows you?” Steve guessed with a smile.

“Better than anyone else,” she said. She tipped her face up, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the sunlight through the leaves. “And if my mother could not control me, he would not expect you to.” 

Steve nodded. “He loves you,” he said, and Shuri made a face. Steve smiled. “Know who he would blame if something were to happen to you?”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Himself,” she said, and Steve nodded. She opened one eye, giving him a look. “You know, I believe I prefer Okoye. At least her scolding is honest.”

Steve struggled against a smile. “My apologies, your Highness.” She made a face at him, and he lost the fight. “Is being the crown princess such a struggle?”

“And why are we asking?” she asked, leaning in his direction. She fluttered her eyelashes, all coquettish innocence. “Are we finally coming to the terms with the reality of our situation?”

“I can’t imagine what you’re referring to,” Steve said as Okoye came riding up next to them. “I’ve told you not to listen to Sam.” She snorted under her breath and Steve shifted in his saddle, trying to resettle his weight. “The man can’t be trusted.”

“Is he still in denial?” Okoye asked Shuri. Shuri nodded. “How are we still having this discussion?” She looked at Steve, her eyebrows arched. “If not for you, I would be with the rest of the royal delegation coming directly from the port, instead of criss-crossing the entirety of this country on a horse.” The disdain in her voice was palpable, and Steve reached out, petting Nomad’s neck in apology. Okoye gave first him, then his horse, a speaking look. “For that reason alone, I shall enjoy watching them clamp a crown upon your head.”

“Has the ride been so bad?” Steve asked, and both of them gave him a look. He nodded. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Nothing is,” Okoye said. “Like a boat with no rudder. You end up where ever the tides take you.” She shook her head, the tiniest flick of her chin. “A king cannot follow an uncharted path.”

“And I am never going to be king,” Steve said. They were approaching an intersection, the road forking off in two different directions. He made an effort not to look at the sign. “So that’s not a concern, is it?” He glanced one way, and then the other.

Shuri pulled her horse to a gentle stop. “Does it seem familiar?” she asked. There was no demand in her voice, just a simple curiosity.

“I think so.” Steve’s hand flexed on his reins, and Nomad danced under him, disliking the pressure on his mouth. Steve made an effort to relax. “But we need to wait for the others, in any case.” He looked at Okoye. “I don’t want us getting separated.”

“And I don’t want-” Shuri started, but Okoye was already sliding out of her saddle, sighing in relief as her feet hit the road. 

“You can wait a bit, your Highness,” she said, leading her horse to the side of the road. The roan mare, her tail swishing, was pleased enough to stand in the shade of the trees, sniffing at the grass next to the wall there. “We are days early still.” She looked up at Shuri’s scowling face. “Come. Have something to eat.”

Shuri slid down, catching her horse’s bridle and following Okoye’s lead. She hopped up onto the stone wall, and her horse nudged against her hands. Laughing, Shuri stroked a hand over the horse’s nose, smoothing the dappled gray fur under her fingers. “Fine.” She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the horse’s forehead. “You need to eat, don’t you, my darling?”

“I trust the animal will take care of itself,” Okoye said, digging into her saddlebags. “You are the one who refuses to sit still long enough to eat more than a few mouthfuls.”

Shuri grinned at her. “There is so much to see, so much to do, who can sit still?” Okoye held out an apple, and Shuri studied it, her head tipped to the side. “Who is this for? Me? Or her?”

“If you give that to your horse-” Okoye started, even as the horse reached out, lipping at the fruit. Okoye’s mouth went thin and flat, and Shuri burst out laughing. 

“I didn’t,” Shuri said, taking it from Okoye’s hand. “You did.” She reached into her boot for her knife. “We are surrounded by princes, Okoye, and our lives are harder for it.”

“We’ll be rid of one, soon enough,” Okoye said, giving Steve a speaking look.

Steve shook his head as he dug through his saddlebags. “Not a prince,” he said, pulling a water flask out. It was light for its size, well balanced and even better crafted. Like everything he’d encountered in Wakanda, the function had never been forgotten in the pursuit of perfecting its form. 

Shuri pointed her knife at him, the tip waggling back and forth. “I am going to have a front row seat for your coronation,” she said. “So I can savor the look of panic on your face.”

Steve’s eyes flicked up towards the sky. “Not a-” was as far as he got before Okoye waved him off.

“We shall see, will we not?” She paused, the blade of her knife tucked just beneath the skin of an apple. Steve followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the riders coming over the horizon. Without thinking, his hand went to his back, muscle memory taking over. But his fingers closed on nothing but air, and he bit back a curse. 

Before he could go for his sword, Okoye reached out, her fingers gentle on his wrist. “It is the others,” she said, and he nodded.

He could see them now, Bucky’s big black horse a few lengths ahead of the others, but with T’Challa, Nakia and Sam forming a tight grouping behind him. Steve stepped into the road, raising a hand in a wave. It wasn’t as if Bucky could miss them, not with the way the road ran, but as soon as Steve stepped out of the shade, Bucky’s pace slowed, letting the others pass. Steve watched, amused, as Bucky checked behind them for pursuers. 

Shuri leaned forward on the wall, her feet braced against the stone. “Nakia!” she called, and Nakia raised a hand in a wave. Shuri cupped her hands around her mouth. “How much do I have to pay you to take my brother off my hands?”

Nakia burst out laughing, even as T’Challa raised a hand in a ‘what have I done to deserve this?’ gesture. “I might be interested! What is your opening offer?” Nakia called back. She cantored up to them, the men right behind her.

“Do not encourage her,” Okoye said.

“I do not think she needs encouragement, but I like to give it, anyway,” Nakia said, sliding out of the saddle in a lithe, easy movement. Behind her, the men did the same, with less grace and a lot more grumbling. She flicked her wrist, wrapping her horse’s reins around one hand in a practiced gesture, and looked at Shuri. “Shall we negotiate, my favorite royal?”

“Your favorite?” T’Challa asked, coming up behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes dancing, and he gave her a mock scowl. It did not sit naturally on his broad, handsome face. “Are you sure about this?”

“True, I do love your mother almost as much as my own,” she mused, and he fought a losing battle to keep a straight face. Nakia crossed her arms over her chest, the reins dangling from her fingers. “But if you’ll excuse me, your majesty, I’m negotiating here.”

He gave her a half bow, inclining his head. “Then, please. Do not let me interrupt.” He tossed his reins over a nearby branch, and took the water flask from Steve with a nod of thanks.

“See?” Shuri said to Okoye, gesturing at her brother. “This is the encouragement I need to grow and thrive.”

Okoye was staring at T’Challa, her face expressionless. He met her eyes, and shrugged. “She’s very persuasive, and at this point, I am open to any allies I can find.” He took a seat on the wall, catching the apple Okoye tossed to him with a grin. “As my own negotiations have found little favor with that party.”

Nakia tipped a look in his direction. “Your Majesty, your negotiations have been attempted under less than ideal circumstances.”

T’Challa paused. “To my dismay, Nakia, our lives appear to be one long string of less than ideal circumstances.”

“And you still chose the worst of ‘em,” Bucky said, walking around Nomad, checking his tack with quick, efficient movements. Finishing up with a glare, he moved on to Okoye’s.

“He has a special talent for that, and you, you get away from my horse,” she said. Bucky looked at her over the horse’s back, his eyes slits behind the shaggy weight of his hair. She scowled at him. “I can put on a saddle, you fool, I don’t need your-”

Bucky disappeared back behind the horse, and she pressed a hand to her face. “No one is falling off their horses!”

“And he’s going to make sure of it,” Sam said, offering her a piece of heavy, dark bread and a thick slice of cheese. She took it, grumbling under her breath. Sam grinned as he sliced another piece free and tossed it to Bucky, who caught it without even looking up. “Bucky, she’s going to stab you, and no one’s gonna stop her.”

“I’ll stop her,” Steve said, and then immediately amended that to, “I’ll TRY to stop her, it depends on how much she’s actually committed to the idea.”

“Oh, I am committed,” Okoye said. To T’Challa, she said, “Will you please make her eat something, your Majesty?” She waved a hand at Shuri, who gave her brother a cheeky smile and a wave. Okoye looked at her, disapproval on her face. “Everything we give her, goes straight into her horse’s mouth.”

Shuri made a face. “I am not hungry,” she said, her voice arch, even as everyone started digging in bags and pouches. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know what this is, this is just a distraction from the very real business I am trying to conduct, and-”

Bucky ducked under his horse’s neck. “Here.” He tossed T’Challa a pear, its damp, pale green skin catching the sunlight. “She likes those.”

Shuri groaned, and Nakia nudged her gently with one shoulder. “They will not stop,” she said, smiling at the girl. “Eat it and you can leverage that later.”

“And she will,” Bucky grumbled, even as he checked her horse’s bridle.

T’Challa started peeling the pear. “Do not make me send you home in shame,” he said to Shuri, his voice teasing. She stuck her tongue out at him, and, laughing, he went back to the fruit. “I’m sure our mother told you what was expected of you.”

“She told me so many things that I’m no longer even sure why I’m here,” Shuri said.

“You are here so that you might broaden your horizons,” T’Challa said, the blade of his knife biting into the yielding flesh of the pear. He cut a piece free and offered it to his sister, the gesture so gentle and familiar that Steve’s chest ached.

Shuri took it with a smile. “My horizons are limitless,” she said, taking a neat little bite.

“And how pleased I am to hear it,” T’Challa said, shaking his head. “Then you are here to meet people, in the hopes that in five or ten years, you’ll agree to marry one of them.”

“I shall never marry,” Shuri said, licking juice from her fingertips. “I shall have conquests by the dozen, I shall steal their knowledge and when they have outlived their usefulness, and I am bored with them, I shall expel them from the palace.” Her head tipped to the side, her eyes wide. “Possibly with a catapult of some sort.” 

There was a moment of silence, broken only by a choked off burst of laughter from Bucky. T’Challa stared at her, a bemused expression on his face. “Shuri…”

Nakia held up a hand. “Your Majesty, please. This requires a woman’s touch.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, but gestured towards his sister. “Please. Whatever you can do.”

Nakia folded her hands in her lap. “Shuri,” she said, her tone holding just the faintest hint of disapproval. Steve glanced at Sam, who met his glance with the tiniest shake of his head. 

Shuri mimicked Nakia’s pose, crossing her legs neatly at her ankles. “Nakia.”

“I do not think you’ve properly thought this through,” Nakia said. 

“I think I have,” Shuri said, nodding. She ticked off the words on her fingers. “Conquest. Knowledge. Catapult.” She gave a firm nod. “It is foolproof.”

“I mean, it is,” Bucky said, and Sam kicked him in the ankle. 

“And very wasteful,” Nakia said, giving Bucky a look. He shrugged. With a smile, she turned back to Shuri. “Have you considered a simple trap door in the floor of your laboratory?”

There was a beat of pause. “I love you,” Shuri said to Nakia.

“I love you, too, little sister, enough to help you design some sort of an angled path that will launch your rejected suitors directly into the deepest jungle,” Nakia said, her voice cheerful, and T’Challa pressed a hand to his eyes.

“If you design it properly,” Okoye mused, a piece of fruit impaled on the tip of her knife, “you could send them flying right past the windows of-”

“I am surrounded by betrayal,” T’Challa said to Steve. “This. This is how my kingdom falls.”

“No, the trapdoor is how you fall,” Shuri said, her head tipped to the side. She gave him a sweet smile. “Do not worry, brother, I will aim you at something soft.”

Bucky snickered, and Sam stood up with a sigh, moving to sit next to Steve. Grinning, Steve moved over to let him take a seat on the rock.

“This is helping?” T’Challa asked Nakia. “How is this helping?”

She shrugged. “I am buying my favor with the new regime, it’s helping me very much.”

Shuri flopped into her lap, and laughing, Nakia flicked the tip of her nose. Shuri grinned up at her. “Please marry my brother.”

Nakia gave T’Challa a speaking look, one hand resting gently on Shuri’s head. “I shall consider your offer, your highness,” she said.

“Progress,” T’Challa said, offering her a piece of the pear, and she took it with a grin.

Steve pushed himself to his feet, dusting his hands against his thighs. “There’s a river not far from here,” he said, and he was pretty sure he believed it. “Give me the flasks, I’ll fill them.”

Sam rewrapped the loaf of bread. “I’ll-” he started, but Bucky was already striding past him, snagging his water flask as he went by. Sam watched him go, an eyebrow arched. “Or, Bucky’ll go with you.”

“Bucky’ll go with him,” Shuri said, grinning. She tossed her bottle to Bucky, who snagged it out of midair. 

“Let’s go,” he said, heading up the road with his usual broad stride, the flasks rattling with each step.

Steve’s head tipped forward. “Guess I’m going,” he said to Sam, who grinned at him.

“Guess you are,” Sam agreed. “I’ll make sure they don’t leave without you.”

“Try it,” Bucky said. “I can outride you.”

Sam leaned back against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. “Feel free,” he said, his eyebrows arching. “My orders were to bring him back. You were never part of the deal.”

“And yet, here I am!” Bucky said, with a broad shrug. “And I can outride you, so here I’ll stay.”

Okoye watched him go. “If you want him to disappear…” she said, her voice dire.

Laughing, Steve headed out after Bucky. “I’ll leave you to your plotting,” he said. “But if he disappears, I’m going to have to go find him again.” Behind him, Sam groaned, and Steve hid his smile, breaking into a jog until he caught up with Bucky. “Do you know where you’re going?” 

One of Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell in a half-shrug, drawing his worn coat tight. “Downhill,” he said. “Where water usually settles.”

Steve hopped over a fence, looking back in time to see Bucky set his foot on the wood, propelling him up and over in two quick, sharp movements. He crashed back to the ground, his boots hitting hard, and Steve shook his head. “Do you remember if there’s actually a river here?”

Another shrug. “You said there was.”

Steve ducked under a branch. “I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, recently.”

Bucky shouldered a bush out of the way. “Maybe.” He moved aside, and there, in the sandy, rocky wash, water flowed, more stream than river, but still. Water. Where he’d thought it would be. Bucky crouched down, removing the cap from the first flask. “But I’ll take your memory over mine.”

Steve stepped down, keeping his boots out of the water. “Not getting better?” he asked, his voice quiet. Above them, the wind still stirred the branches, the faint, warbling call of a bird mixing with the rattle of the leaves. Beyond that, there was just silence.

“What’s better?” Bucky set the bottle aside and started on the next one. “It is what it is.” He looked at Steve, one dark eye visible under the weight of his hair. “Are you?”

Steve paused, considering that. The journey along the length of the countryside had been slow, almost random in the roads they had taken. The others had let him choose the route, let him piece together what he could from fractured memories.

Occasionally, their procession had crossed paths with a smaller caravan of traders, their wagons drawn by rattling little machines or heavy draft horses. A group of students, on their way back from an expedition into the mountains, had paused by their campfire, chattering and enthusiastic about their work, despite the filthy state of their clothes and their sunburned faces. 

They’d been slowed, just before a bridge crossing, by a herd of sheep, milling in and around the riverbanks. Okoye, Bucky, Sam and Steve had plunged in, dragging panicked ewes back to the flock while Shuri had sat on the bridge, tossing pebbles to keep them out of deep water. The shepherd, a shy, brawny girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen, had offered her a gift of soft, yielding cheese in thanks. 

Time after time, Steve had ridden out ahead, chasing the flight of birds that fluttered through the clear skies above the road, or keeping pace with the hares that darted through the underbrush. Now and again, he had gone as fast as he could, giving Nomad his head, letting him run as fast as he pleased. When he reached a fork in the road, or a bend that would take him out of sight, he slowed, savoring the warmth of the sunlight on his face.

Eventually, Sam or Bucky would catch up to him, both of them muttering dark things under their breath as they cantered up behind him. Steve had done his best not to smile as he roped them into picking apples that hung, heavy and tempting, over the road, or helping him patch up a collapsed stone wall.

He looked down at the flask in his hand, water dripping along the polished metal and wood, making it glow in the sunlight. “Know what?” he asked, turning it from side to side, watching the light flare along the surface. “Waking up in Wakanda might’ve been a blessing.” He looked up to find Bucky watching him, and smiled. “After that, coming back here feels more familiar. Things may have changed. I may have forgotten a road or two, and a few villages may have moved while I was sleeping-”

“Villages didn’t move,” Bucky grumbled, dropping another flask on the pile. “You forgot where it was.”

“Maybe,” Steve allowed. “But still. After Wakanda?” He reached down, gathering up the flasks. “It’s still like coming home.”

Behind him, a stick snapped, and Bucky was on his feet, knife in his hand, so fast that Steve didn’t even see him move. From the woods, Sam’s voice called. “Just me. Put it away.”

Bucky tossed the knife in the air, catching it by the hilt. “Is that supposed to stop me?” he asked.

Sam pushed through the bushes. “One would hope,” he said, his voice wry. He looked at Steve. “Redwing caught up with us. We’ve got someone waiting for us at the next inn.”

Steve looked at Bucky, who’d gone back to filling the bottles. With a sigh, he turned back to Sam. “We’re on our way.”

*

The inn was a small, unremarkable stone and wooden building set just off the road, clinging to the edge of the forest. It looked like it had once been more important than it was now, but still, it was well lit and well tended, with a broad yard in front for parking vehicles and a stable for the horses.

At this hour, the stable was mostly deserted, save for a sleepy looking boy who emerged to take the horses from them, one after another. T’Challa tossed him a coin, and looked at Okoye. Okoye leaned against wall of the stable, a heavy staff braced in one hand. Her fingers flexed against the wood, and she nodded. “Take her,” she said, a thread of steel in her words. Exchanging a glance with her, Nakia slipped into the night, disappearing around the corner and vanishing in an instant. “We will wait.” 

Bucky fell in next to Okoye, and she didn’t even look in his direction. “Go,” she said. “I’ll keep watch.” Bucky didn’t reply, and her head tipped in his direction. “He needs you.”

She didn’t say who ‘he’ was, but Bucky pushed himself upright, his face set. “I’m fine,” Steve said, but Bucky passed him as well, the heavy strap of his rifle thrown over his shoulder. Steve shook his head. “I don’t-”

“No one cares what you want,” Bucky said, overtaking Sam and reaching the inn door before him.

“I’m starting to realize that, thanks,” Steve said. He pushed his hair back away from his forehead, and shrugged the weight of his coat into place on his shoulders. 

Shuri waited, her face serene. “Ready?” she asked, with a slight smile.

“If I say no, can I keep riding?” he asked, and she shook her head. Steve looked at T’Challa.

“I would’ve said yes, but Nakia’ll take you down before you made it half a league,” he said with a grin.

Shuri made a gesture like a tree toppling. “You will never know what hit you,” she said. She headed for the inn, for the front door, where Bucky and Sam were both waiting, with various levels of patience.

The innkeeper didn’t even look up as they entered his attention focused on the ledger book spread open in front of him. Half a dozen coins, polished and bright, stood out amid the piles in front of him, and he gestured behind him with a twitch of his head. “Back parlor, my lords,” he said, his voice rough. Bucky took a step forward, his booted foot hitting the ground with a thump, and the man looked up, peering through the smoke from his pipe. “And my lady,” he amended.

Bucky gave him a hard look, but Sam was already moving towards the door. He pushed it open, stepping aside so that Shuri, T’Challa, and finally Steve could enter as well. Only after Bucky reluctantly stepped inside as well did he push the door shut with a firm, and final click.

A lone man was seated at the table in the rear of the room, his booted feet outstretched towards the hearth. The fireplace cast heavy shadows across the worn wooden floor and equally worn furniture. A heavy tankard sat, seemingly forgotten, next to the man’s elbow, but his plate was bare, except for a few crusts of bread and a bit of cheese. 

Sam stepped forward, and the man’s head tipped in their direction, a single brilliant eye catching the firelight, gleaming in the shadows beneath his hood. “Good evening.”

Sam nodded.. “Good evening,” he responded, his voice quiet. He bowed, his back straight and his shoulders squared. “Your Majesty.”

Teeth flashed, bright and white, and the man reached up, pushing his hood back. “You always were a clever one, Wilson.” He pushed himself to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. He was tall and broad, with square shoulders and a steady stance. One eye was covered by an eyepatch, scar tissue extending from beneath the black silk. He was bald, a neat beard framing his stern mouth.

But when he smiled at T’Challa, his whole face lit up. “Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head.

Laughing, T’Challa did the same. “Your Majesty.” He thrust out a hand, and King Nicholas took it, dragging him in for an easy hug. T’Challa thumped him on the back for a moment, then leaned back to consider him. “It has been too long. You look well!”

Nicholas released him, making a show of rotating his shoulder. “As well as could be expected, for an old man.” 

T’Challa took a step back, gesturing at Shuri. “May I present her royal highness, the crown princess Shuri?”

King Nicholas bowed. “Your Highness.”

Shuri dipped a languid curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she said with a smile. 

The king smiled back, a slight, sad sort of smile. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing,” he said. He looked at T’Challa, then back to Shuri, his one dark eye sharp. “He was one of the finest men I’d ever met.”

Shuri nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “He always spoke highly of you. Said you could have remained in Wakanda, if you had wanted.”

Nicholas nodded. “You have no idea how honored I am to hear that. He was a good man, a good king. I always trusted the reports I got from Wakanda.” His gaze slid to the side, catching on Steve and staying there. Steve realized he’d fallen back into the posture that the army had beaten into him, shoulders back, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Slowly, deliberately, Nicholas crossed to stand directly in front of him. “Which is the only reason I gave any credence to this, particular, report.”

There was a long moment of silence, as he just studied Steve, his face unreadable. Finally, his chin dropped a fraction of an inch, the barest hint of a nod. “Welcome home, Captain.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Steve said.

Nicholas shook his head. “Even with your signature on the page, T’Challa, I suppose some part of me still didn’t believe it. But here we are.” He waved a hand at Steve. “Here we both are. God above, here we both are.”

He walked back to his chair and dropped back into it with a heavy sigh. “The lost heir. The prodigal son. Home at last.”

Steve’s stomach turned over. “Your Majesty, with all due respect-”

Nicholas’ head swung towards T’Challa. “Why do I get the feeling that whatever is about to come out of that boy’s mouth is not going to be particularly respectful?”

T’Challa smiled. “Because you are, as always, a wise man.”

“That I am.” Nicholas gestured at the table. “Please. Have a seat.” When Steve opened his mouth to object, the king pointed at the seat. “Captain. Sit.”

Steve sat. “Your Majesty-” he started, as Shuri and T’Challa pulled up seats next to him. Behind them, neither Bucky nor Sam moved away from their positions on either side of the door.

“Do you remember me?” Nicholas asked, cutting Steve off.

Steve nodded. “Yes, your Majesty. You were…” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “You were King Phillips’ spymaster.”

Nicholas grinned, wide and bright. “Yes, I was. We didn’t meet often, you and I, but I remember you. And I was there the day that Phillips added you to the line of succession.”

“Then you know, it was a gesture, and nothing more,” Steve said. “He never intended-”

“Doesn’t much matter what he intended, but I suspect you’re right,” Nicholas said. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “We’d been at war for a long time. People were tired. They were scared. And a few of the nobles were starting to get above themselves, weren’t they? Gathering power, consolidating their holds on their lands, and the troops under them.”

His gaze wandered towards the hearth, and he stared at the flames. “Phillips was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He had heirs already.” Nicholas frowned. “At the time, it was, what? His brother, his brother’s three children, an uncle? And he had a cousin as well, maybe two?”

He shook his head. “The point is, when he added you, it was a safeguard. Against someone attempting to dethrone him.” He looked back at Steve. “You were a threat. To anyone who thought to depose Phillips, you were a very real problem.”

One eyebrow arched. “You have any idea how quickly the talk of rebellion stopped, once you were named a prince of the realm?”

Steve stared at him. “No.”

“No. You wouldn’t. But I would.” Nicholas reached for his tankard. “You could not be bought. You could not be threatened. You could not be intimidated or influenced. And if someone made the mistake of killing the royal family? They would also have had to deal with you, and not a one of them was willing to risk it.” He lifted his cup in a mock salute. “You were the perfect prince.”

“Except I’m not,” Steve said. “I’m-” He shook his head. “I am a soldier, sir. Your Majesty. I’m not equipped for court or nobility.”

Nicholas’ lips flicked in something like a smile. “I know. And here you are, anyway.”

“I was summoned,” Steve said. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

“Well, since you’ve been dead for almost fifty years?” Nicholas took a sip from his tankard. “Wasn't really expecting Wilson to come back with anything other than an apology.” The tankard thumped against the tabletop. “But since you’re here, I think it’s time for some plain words.”

“I’d appreciate that, actually,” Steve said, and Nicholas laughed.

“I suspect you would,” he said. He rested a hand on the tabletop, his fingers rattling against the wood. “Do you know why I’m currently sitting on the throne, Captain?” Steve shook his head, and Nicholas smiled. “Because no one wanted me there.”

Steve stared at him. “Your Majesty?”

Nicholas smiled. “By the time he died, Phillips was alone. His family had died off, one after another. No one was surprised when his uncle passed, he was an old man. And his brother and one of his nephews died during an epidemic one summer. Everyone had someone to mourn that year.”

He shook his head. “One by one, the royal line dwindled. Until Phillips was all that was left. When he died-” His mouth went tight. “There was no heir, Captain. There was just half a dozen nobles, all of whom wanted the throne and none of whom had a real claim to it.

“I’m on the throne because they could all agree, none of them wanted me there. The King’s death caught everyone off guard. There was no time to consolidate power, no time to make alliances. It was a race to determine if someone could take the crown without all out war.”

He paused. “I’d been Phillips’ primary adviser for twenty years. I was already an old man. I had no family. No heirs. I am on the throne as a stopgap measure, Captain. Because the country needed a king, and putting me there was a stalling tactic. For the five or ten years that I lived to rule, the noble houses could work behind the scenes. Make arrangements. Prepare for the day I died.”

This time, his smile was hard and sharp, lacking any sense of warmth. “And I get the feeling that day is coming, sooner than I would like.”

Steve frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Nicholas reached for his mug again. “Don’t you think it’s odd?” he asked, his tone amused. “That T’Challa insisted on sending that missive to me? Don’t you think it’s odd that Wilson was the one to come collect you? A member of the city guard? Not one of the King’s Elite, or even a whole battalion of the army? Just a single man.” He swirled the beer in his cup, watching it roll against the metal. “Don’t you think it’s odd that you got such a…” He tapped a finger against his cheek. “Royal guard, all the way home?”

Steve stared at him, and Nicholas chuckled. “You always were one for a straight frontal assault,” he said, his voice warm. “How did you survive a war?”

Behind him, Bucky cleared his throat. “That would be me,” he said, and Nicholas laughed out loud.

“I suspect that’s closer to the truth than you’d like, Lieutenant.”

“You think they’re going to kill you,” Steve said, bringing Nicholas’ attention back to him. “And you think-” He twisted in his chair to look at T’Challa, who was sitting with his elbows on the table, his hands tented in front of his mouth. “You all think they’re going to kill me, too.”

T’Challa’s eyes were hooded. “It was a concern,” he said. He smiled at Steve. “We have not known you long, but…”

Shuri shrugged. “Seemed a shame. To send you to a backwater like this, just to die.”

“Thanks. I think.” Steve looked at Nicholas. “I don’t doubt you, your Majesty, but if what you’re saying is true, then-”

“Because there is no other choice,” Nicholas said. He downed the rest of his beer in a long swallow, then dropped the tankard back to the table. “I took the throne, because the alternative was not one I could stomach. And you’ll do the same.” He stood. “If I die, and I have every reason to believe that a conspiracy within the walls of my own palace is already too established for me to stop, then it will be war. There are three noble houses with their eyes on the throne, and each of the three is primed to take on the others. I’ve held them in check, in a sort of balance, since I took the throne. Kept all three of them as advisers. It limits their ability to work in the shadows, but it also gives them far more access than I’d like.

“At least one of them is actively plotting. And I must be getting old and soft, because by the time I realized it…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t manage to catch that particular tiger by the tail. When I die, and I will, one way or the other, it’ll be war.”

Steve’s stomach was churning. “Unless we can uncover the conspiracy.”

Nicholas’ chin dipped in a nod. “Unless we can stop them,” he agreed. He smiled. “Just like old times, Captain.”

Steve wanted to laugh. Or cry. He wasn’t sure which. “The ship I was on went down, like you said. Almost fifty years ago. No one will believe-”

“The people who need to believe already do.” Nicholas smiled. “T’Challa’s missive didn’t reach me unopened. And I’m sure my reply was more public than I would’ve liked as well. Which is why I met with Wilson in person to assign him to go and fetch you.” He paused, his eye cutting in Sam’s direction. “You were slow, by the way.”

Sam smiled. “Yes, your Majesty.” He took a deep breath. “There were… Complications.”

Bucky raised a hand. “That’d be me,” he repeated, and Nicholas laughed.

“Yeah, two for the price of one, on war legends and folk heroes,” he said with a grin. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Glad we could still provide a few surprises,” Steve said. He leaned forward. “They- Whoever they are, they know we’re coming.”

“The rumors are spreading. It’s all tangled up,” Nicholas said, bracing his hands on the table. “There’s an old legend, you know. That when the times are dark, when hope is faltering, a lost king will come down from the mountains to reclaim his throne.”

Steve’s eyes fell closed. “What’s your plan?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“For now, I’d like you to return to the city. Wilson will get you set up on the city guard. It’ll give you a reason to go where you need, and talk to anyone.” He straightened up. “The captain of the guard runs a tight ship. His people can be trusted, but beyond that?” Nicholas shook his head. “I can’t say.”

He reached for the hat that was hanging on the back of his chair. “The King’s Ball is in just over two month’s time,” he said. “Which is, of course, why the Wakandan delegation is entering the city. They won’t be the only ones. By that point, I will be expected to name an heir.” He looked at Steve. “Things’ll be coming to a head, very soon.”

Steve nodded. “And I find myself out of the ice and into the fire,” he said. He took a deep breath. “I can’t promise you anything, you Majesty.”

“You don’t have to.” Nicholas slipped the hat on and adjusted it, pulling the brim low over his face. “I remember you. When push comes to shove, you will always do what’s right. No matter what it costs you.” He headed for the door, and paused, halfway there. “And for that, Prince Steven, I am well and truly sorry.”

He opened the door and slipped through, pulling it shut behind him with an almost soundless click of the latch. In the silence that followed, Steve heard Bucky suck in a long, slow breath. “Well, fuck you all,” he said, his voice resigned, and Steve choked on a laugh.

He gave Bucky a chiding look, some of the stress bleeding out of him. “Buck…”

“No, seriously, fuck you all,” Bucky said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Let the royals clutch their pearls, because fuck you in particular.”

“Me?” T’Challa asked, with a lopsided smile.

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t talking about her,” Bucky said, gesturing at Shuri. 

Shuri grinned at her brother. “He’s got a point.”

T’Challa gave her a look, then turned back to Steve. “Rumors have been swirling for a while,” he admitted. “The War Dogs assigned here have…” His mouth went flat and tight, his eyes going sharp. “Concerns.”

“So you came along,” Bucky said. “And brought the crown princess.”

Shuri smiled. “Yes, you were very suspicious until I told you that I was coming along.” 

Bucky stared at her, and mumbled something under his breath. Next to him, Sam grinned. “You should be used to being outsmarted by the thirteen year old by now,” he said.

“Yeah, but it still stings,” Bucky said. But he was smiling. “Right. So now that we’re here and you’ve pinned a target on his back, what’s our plan?”

“We take our leave of you here,” T’Challa said, pushing back his chair, “and rejoin the rest of the delegation. Being seen in our company will only draw more attention to you.”

“He will be your spy in the court,” Shuri said. “I, meanwhile, will be a street urchin, gaining low information in the markets and back alleys.”

“She will be talking to other royals,” T’Challa said.

Shuri opened her eyes as wide as possible and plastered a smile on her face. “I love your dress! Who is your family forcing you to marry?”

T’Challa’s eyes slid shut, and Steve hid a smile behind his hand. “I’m sure the next few weeks will just fly by,” he said.

“I’m sure.” T’Challa stood. “Okoye?”

The door opened, and Okoye stepped in, a large, cloth wrapped bundle thrown over one shoulder. She shrugged it off and held it out to Shuri. “Nakia will follow him back to the city,” she said. “And meet us on the main road.”

T’Challa frowned. “You were supposed to-” Okoye looked at him, her eyebrows arched, and he stopped. “Right. Of course you could not stop her.”

“I did not bother to try,” she said, as Shuri set the package down and unwrapped it, pushing the cloth aside. Beneath the folds, a familiar red, white, and blue curve of metal appeared.

She pulled the cloth free, folding it and tossing it over her shoulder. “We have a gift for you,” she said to Steve, gesturing at it. “I made it myself.”

“You fixed my shield.” Steve reached for it, and his hands were shaking as his fingers closed on the edges of the shield. “Shuri. You-”

Her fingers slipped away, letting the weight of it settle in his hands, and his stomach dropped. His head snapped up. “What is this-”

She smiled. “I know you were attached to it, that a friend made it for you,” she said, her voice proud. “So I honored his design.”

“No.” Steve twisted around, setting the shield on the table. “No. This is-” He shook his head. “This- This doesn’t leave Wakanda. This isn’t meant to be in my hands.”

“It is a gift, to a friend,” T’Challa said. “One who I am sure will use it wisely.” Steve’s head swung in his direction, and T’Challa smiled at him. “And your reluctance to take it proves our point.”

“Your old shield, it made with the finest steel that your people had access to. It was made to protect a man, to protect a mission,” Shuri said. She scooped up the shield and held it with one hand, the polished surface of the vibranium gleaming in the firelight. “This? This is a shield that can protect a nation.” Her chin came up, her eyes sparking. “Take it. It is the shield of a king.”

Steve managed a smile. “I am no king.” He went down to one knee, his head bowing low. “Just a soldier, in the presence of a queen.”

There was a soft sigh, and then a light bonk on his head. He looked up, and Shuri smiled as she tapped him on the head with the shield again. “Get up, you fool,” she said. “Barnes, come collect this fool and-” She looked over her shoulder just in time to see both Sam and Bucky go down to one knee, covering their hearts with one hand. Shuri heaved a heavy sigh, her eyes rolling up. “Okoye.”

Okoye turned her staff to the side and used it to bop both of them with one flick of her wrist. “Idiots,” she said. She turned back to the door. “Take it.” She paused, and looked back over her shoulder at Steve. “You will need it.” She opened the door. “Come, your Highness.”

Laughing, Shuri held the shield out to Steve, and he took it. “Be careful,” she said with a nod, and headed off after Okoye. “And I will see you in the market.”. 

T’Challa held out a hand to Steve, and Steve took it. “We will meet again,” he said. “Soon.”

His grip was firm and strong, and Steve nodded. “I hope so.” He tried to smile. “You set me up.”

“That, I fear, happened before I was born,” T’Challa said. “Phillips set you up. As guard and guardian. As the keeper of the peace. And now, in all likelihood, you will be king. The king your country needs, desperately.”  
Steve nodded, and reached for the shield. It was lighter than anything he’d ever handled, and he ran his fingertips across the surface, feeling the absolute perfection of the design, of the execution. He shifted it over his arm, and then, onto his back. It settled there as if it had been made for him, which, he supposed that it had. But the moment it fell into place, the weight a fraction of what his body remembered, something relaxed, deep in his chest. 

T’Challa watched him go through the motions. “It suits you.”

Steve reached up, touching the rim. “She does remarkable work.”

“Yes. She does.” Smiling, T’Challa turned. “Make your way back to the city by the backroads, my friends. There are forces watching for you, even now, and best you find allies and shelter before taking them on.”

“Or, you know, we could just find them and put a bullet in them,” Bucky offered.

“Do I get a vote?” Sam asked, staring at Bucky. “Because I would very much like a vote.”

“You gonna vote for my plan?” Bucky asked him.

“No.” The single word was flat. Unequivocal. 

“Then you don’t get a vote.” Bucky pushed away from the wall. “C’mon, Steve, grab your new toy and let’s go. We’ve still got a few days ride; might as well get to it.”

Sam let out a sigh, and T’Challa patted him on the shoulder. “Good luck with them.”

Sam nodded. “Thank you, your Majesty. I think I’m going to need it.”

*

The capitol on the hill beckoned them home.

In the years he’d been gone, the city had stretched out across the landscape, houses and buildings and roads spreading out into what had been farmland. There were still fields there, beyond the city walls, vast stretches of orchards and deep, ancient forest stretching away from the road. Every turn in the road, he found himself looking for an old farmhouse, or a manor tucked back beyond the trees, well away from the flow of traffic. And in some way, out of the flow of time as well.

But the city reached out, roads stretched like fingers, to draw him in. To draw him home. When they had crossed the broad old stone bridge that hung over the river, Nomad had fallen easily into the flow of traffic, of merchants and pilgrims, of workmen on carts and farmhands carrying their burdens on their backs. No one spared him more than a glance, and with each step, Steve felt the strain bleed out of him.

He remembered the city. He remembered the looming buildings that hung out over the narrow streets, and the small stretches of common ground and the old wells. He remembered the way the wind swept down the central streets, sending leaves skittering against the cobblestones. He remembered the way that the sun caught the windows of the stately old buildings, of the cathedral and the grand mansions, of the university and lower school buildings. He remembered the clatter and call of the market streets, the faint smell of fresh vegetables and damp dirt.

The stores had changed. The houses had grown and cluttered up streets that had once been empty, and women in fancy dresses and men in high collared jackets walked where sheep had once jostled against each other and their shepherds. There were parks that hadn’t been there before. There were old benches right where he remembered them.

He didn’t know this city anymore. But he remembered it, anyway.

“We all right?”

The words startled him out of his reverie, and Steve shook his head. “What?” 

Bucky didn’t even spare him a glance, his eyes glued on the horizon. “We all right?” he asked, his hair fluttering against his face with each step his horse took.

Steve nodded. “I am,” he said. Sam was just a few feet ahead of them, his horse darting quickly through the flow of traffic. “You?”

Bucky’s shoulder rose in a shrug. “One place is the same as any other,” he said, and Steve looked at him. His face was expressionless, his mouth a tight line. But his posture was relaxed, or as relaxed as he seemed to get, nowadays.

“You don’t have to-”

“Swear I’ll kick you right into the river if you finish that sentence,” Bucky said. He steered his horse around a slow moving boy and his flock of geese. For a brief, endless moment, he was out of Steve’s reach, and then he was swinging back in. “You and Wilson are the only people I know anymore, and I can’t stand Wilson.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Sam called over his shoulder, and Steve tried not to laugh.

“Ain’t talking to you!” Bucky yelled, and Steve grinned at nothing in particular. Bucky glanced at him. “Please let me kill him.”

“Seems like a bad idea,” Steve said. Nomad trotted past a rattling cart, the engine hissing as it tried to keep pace. Steve shook his head. “Know what the benefit is of waking up in Wakanda?” Bucky shook his head, and Steve grinned. “After that culture shock, everything, no matter how much it’s advanced, still seems familiar.”

“I guess you can call that a benefit,” Bucky said, but he was smiling, as much as he did, anymore.

It was true, though. Steve could still pick out things that he remembered; the city may have changed, but not that much. The castle was still there, high on the hill in the center of the city, the lines of it as elegant and beautiful as he remembered. It loomed over everything, the turrets and walkways stretching up into the cloudless sky. 

Steve tried not to look at it.

“Barracks isn’t far from here,” Sam sad, falling back between Steve and Bucky. 

“I’m not living in a barracks,” Bucky said. “So I’ll be-”

Sam shook his head. “You won’t be. I just need to check in with the Captain, then we’ll be heading out.” He held the reins with one hand, his head on a swivel, watching as people moved past them. “There’s an old cottage just outside the walls of the city, down by the river. Used to belong to the gatekeeper, back when that was a job that could be done by one man. The King let the last gatekeeper keep it, after he retired. He passed away about a year ago, it’s been empty since then.”

“Great,” Bucky said. “Old, abandoned and haunted.”

“I’ve got a bed for you in the barracks if you’ve really got a problem,” Sam said with a bright smile.

“Guess the ghost probably won’t snore as badly as Steve does,” Bucky said, and Steve flicked his reins in his direction. Laughing, Bucky held up a hand to ward him off. “Truth hurts, don’t it?”

Sam lead the way down a side street. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll get Danvers, she’ll want to talk to you both before we head back to the cottage.” Without waiting for a response, he touched his heels to his horse’s side and cantered away. 

Bucky barely waited for him to get out of sight before he nodded. “Right. Wait here.”

Steve sighed. “And where are you going?” he asked.

“Getting the lay of the land, stay here,” Bucky repeated. “You’re too loud, and you know it.”

“I can be sneaky if I want to be,” Steve called after him, and a woman walking by started, hopping back towards the shopfronts. Steve gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and she gave him a suspicious look before scampering away. “Well. If I want to be.”

He slid out of the saddle, glad for the break, as short as it might be. The street was a narrow little lane of narrow little shops, half of which seemed to be closed already. He gave one dusty shop window a look. Or maybe never opened anymore.

But halfway up the road, he spotted a sign shaped like a clockface, and his hand went to his coat pocket. Without really thinking about it, he lead Nomad up to the shop, and looped his reins around a nearby post.

The sign that hung over the door had seen better days, the paint worn thin, and the carving almost illegible. Steve could still make out the words, “Pym’s Clockworks,” even if the establishment date was lost to time. The broad windows at the front of the shop were coated in grime, but he could still see the shadowy, ghostly outlines of several clocks sitting just on the other side of the glass, and beyond that, something that might’ve been the proprietor, bent over his workbench.

Ignoring his misgivings, Steve reached for the door. A bell rang as he pushed it open, but it was almost drowned out by the creaking of the hinges. Steve stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind him. “Hello?” he asked, dusting his hand off on his hip. The doorknob had been even dirtier than he’d thought it would be. “Are you open?”

Behind the counter, a man in a plain white shirt and an unbuttoned black vest was bent over a complicated mechanism. His pale blonde hair flopped over his forehead, his eyes almost hidden beneath it when he spared Steve a single glance. Then, without so much as a word, he went back to his work.

Steve hovered, just inside the door, his watch held awkwardly in his hand. “I guess not,” he said.

“You know, this is why you can’t make rent.”

The voice was half amused, half scolding, and the man at the counter grunted, flapping a hand through the air without even looking up from his work. The curtain that closed the front of the shop off from the back twitched aside, and a young man leaned out. “We’re open. What do you need?”

Steve held up the pocket watch.. “My watch. It’s not working.”

The young man stepped out into the shop. He was slight of frame, but with broad, well-muscled shoulder beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and not as tall as Steve was, but few people were, now. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and when he smiled, there was an air of puckish humor around his mouth that made Steve smile back. “Ah, you see, that is a problem,” he said, swinging around the end of the counter. “Mr. Pym works small, and he works large. I’m afraid you’ve caught him in a rather expensive mood.” He gave the watchmaker a fond, if exasperated, look. “And as such, I find he’s not likely to be interested in anything smaller than a grandfather clock right now.”

He stopped in front of Steve, and held out a hand, palm up. “I’d be happy to take a look at it for you, however.”

Steve’s fingers flexed, tightening on the case for an instant. “I’d prefer to wait until he’s… In the mood,” he said, trying to be polite about it.

The young man’s hand hung there, open and empty, between them for another moment. Then it fell back to his side, his smile losing some of its brilliance. “Of course,” he said, his voice as smooth and polite as ever. “You’re welcome to wait. Though I’ve no idea how long it will be.”

“Forever,” the man at the counter grumbled. One blue eye appeared under the shock of blonde hair to glare in Steve’s direction. “See him out, Tony.”

Stung despite himself, Steve slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Of course, I’m sorry to have-”

“Don’t apologize to him, it only reinforces this sort of behavior,” the young man said. He glanced around Steve, and sighed. “Let me- No one should be touching this door without a pair of gloves.” He leaned in, running a fingertip across the wood. “Or perhaps a flame of some sort.” 

He nudged Steve to the side with a flicker of his elbow. “Give me just-” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, the white fabric already stained here and there with streaks of oil and dust. “I can-” He looked at Steve. “If you don’t mind?”

Steve stared back at him, caught by the color of his eyes, a warm, honey-golden brown. His dark brows arched, an amused smile tipping his lips up, and then he set a hand gently on Steve’s elbow. “One step to the side, please, and I’ll-”

“Oh!” Steve tried to get out of the way, and somehow ended up bumping into him instead. The young man staggered backwards, grabbing for the doorframe, and Steve caught his arm, steadying him. “Sorry. I didn’t-”

Gently, the young man extracted his arm from Steve’s grip. “It’s something about this shop,” he said, wiping first the door knob, then the glass of the door’s window with his handkerchief. “Just a little light can’t hurt, wouldn’t you agree?”

He stepped back with a nod. “There. Now, that we’ve taken care of that…” The young man stepped back towards the middle of the shop, making a magician’s pass with his fingers. “I can fix this.”

The watch in his hand was very familiar. Steve’s hand shot to his pocket, but even before his fingers closed on the cloth, he knew it was empty.

“Give it back.”

Everything went still. Steve rocked back on his heels, shocked by the violence in his own voice. It echoed in the small space, hard edged and sharp. Slowly, carefully, the dark haired young man looked up, his face blank. His eyes were flat and wary, and Steve tamped down on an unreasonable feeling of guilt, even as the watchmaker pushed his stool back from the counter, his face wary.

“Don’t pick customer’s pockets,” he said, his voice hard. To Steve, he said, “I’m sorry, my apprentice is a bit…” His mouth worked. “Impetuous.”

Steve ignored him. “It’s important,” he said. And that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t nearly enough. There was something hard and sharp lodged in his throat, and he could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, something beyond anger, beyond fear making his chest ache. He held out a hand. “It’s important to me. Give it back. Now.”

The man looked down, at the watch in his hand, and then back at Steve. “I can fix it,” he said, his voice quiet. He smiled, slight and strained. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have taken it. But I can fix it.”

He held it out, the battered watch cradled in the hollow of his palm. “If you’ll let me.”

Before the sentence was even done, Steve was reaching for it. But for some reason, he stopped short of taking it, his hand hanging in the air a few inches from the other man’s. His hands were dirty, his fingers rubbed raw, the tips almost black with oil or soot. The silver case of the watch gleamed against his skin, but it seemed to fit there, in a way Steve couldn’t really define.

Steve looked up, meeting his eyes. “You can fix it?” Without missing a beat, the man nodded. Steve took a deep breath. “Fine. Fix it.” And that was unreasonable. Steve tried to smile. “Please.”

The man’s eyebrows arched. “That caused you physical pain, didn’t it?” he said.

Steve stared at him, caught between annoyance and amusement. 

“You pickpocketed him,” the watchmaker pointed out, going back to his work. “I think he gets to be a little tense.”

“Fair enough.” The young man smiled, and Steve’s mouth was dry, and he didn’t know why. “This is Mr. Pym, the proprietor of this fine establishment,” he said, gesturing at the clockmaker, who didn’t acknowledge the comment. “I’m Tony, his ever humble apprentice..” Pym let out a laugh that was almost a bark, and Tony smiled. “And I’ll be fixing your watch today.”

Steve found himself smiling back. “Steve,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Wait to thank me until the work is done,” Tony said. He swung around the counter, boosting himself up onto a stool with a fluid, easy grace. One leg swung back, the toe of his worn boot catching the wooden leg, bracing his body as he leaned forward. He rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. “Is it running slow? Fast?” He glanced at Steve, and reached for a magnifying lens. “Not running at all?”

“I wind it, and it runs down faster than it should,” Steve said. He shifted, trying to find a place to stand where he wasn’t in the way. The claustrophobic space pressed down on him, dozens upon dozens of clock faces staring down at him like unblinking eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to bump into any of the shelves when he did. “Sometimes, it just stops.”

Tony nodded, and his hair fell over his forehead. He reached up and pushed it back, the strands tangling between his fingers. “Nothing worse than a misbehaving mechanism,” he said, and even though Steve couldn’t see his face, he could hear the smile in his voice. 

“It’s not-” Steve looked at the watch, at Tony’s fingers as he removed the case, the movements deft and precise. The case was bent, the cheap metal having given way at some point. “I doubt it’s worth fixing. It didn’t cost much to begin with.”

“Anything is worth fixing, if it can be fixed.” Tony’s head tipped to the side, the line of his jaw sharp as he scowled down at the gears. Mumbling under his breath, he began the process of disassembling the watch. He huffed out a breath, holding a spring up to the light. “Besides, it’s not the watch, it’s who gave it to you.”

Steve flinched, his shoulders rocking forward. He licked his lips. “Why-”

Tony grinned. “Ah. A family heirloom?” He tipped the watch casing to the light. “If so, it’s a relatively recent one, this can’t be more than-” He squinted at it, his dark eyes sparking beneath the line of his brows. “No makers mark that I can see, but I’m guessing… Fifty years old? Maybe sixty?” 

Steve tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “About that. I don’t-” He shook his head, glancing towards the front of the shop. The people passing by were shadowy shapes, the edges and details muted by the heavy grime on the glass. They looked like ghosts, and he put his back to the window. “It was a gift. From… Someone who’s gone.”

Tony nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, and for some reason, Steve believed him. His thumb smoothed over the crystal face of the watch. “Did-”

“She married someone else,” Steve said, and he had no idea why he was saying any of this. But it was like poking a bruise, to see if it still hurt. To see if the ache was finally passing. 

Tony’s hands stilled. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’d say that will teach you to pry, but I know it won’t,”Pym said, and Steve found he was smiling.

“It was… A long time ago,” he said. “But carrying it is habit now. Even if you can’t get it working again-”

“I beg your pardon,” Tony said, bent over his work, and Pym shook his head.

“Even if you can’t,” Steve repeated, “I can’t imagine not having it.”

“Well, a working watch is better than a broken memento,” Tony said. His head still down, he reached for one of the jars of instruments, and Pym nudged it closer to his hand. He chose a long pair of needlepoint tweezers, mumbling a thank you under his breath.

The door rattled, and Steve managed to get out of the way before it opened. Bucky leaned in, his face a thundercloud. “You-”

“Almost done,” Steve said, not that he knew if that was true or not. But Pym was watching Bucky with a wary eye, his face tense. “I just needed someone to fix my watch, and I had a spare moment, so I thought-”

“Fix your watch?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “The one that-”

“Yes,” Steve said, cutting him off. “That one. It just needed to be-”

“It just needed to be cleaned, actually, there was some grit in the gears and a bit of rust, but it came off easily enough,” Tony said. “All done.”

Steve glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see Tony fit the case back into place. He opened it with a flick of his thumb, and closed it with a click. He held it out to Steve. “There we go. Good as new.” His eyebrows arched. “Next time? Keep it out of the water.”

For an instant, Steve went still, his skin icing over. “I’ll… Remember that.” He took the watch from him. “Thank you.” He looked up and met Tony’s eyes. “What do I owe you?”

Tony shrugged, already rolling his sleeves back down. “Simple fix. Come back when you need something more substantive done.” He hopped off of his stool. “After all, you never asked me to fix it.”

Steve reached into his pocket and came up with a few coins. “But you did it anyway. Thank you.” He dropped them on the counter. “This is why you can’t make rent.”

Tony laughed, and for some reason, Steve felt his face heat. Tony picked up the coins. “Thank you for your business,” he said, and Steve nodded.

“I’ll… See you around,” he managed at last, and before Tony could say anything else, Steve pushed past Bucky and out the shop door. Outside, Sam was waiting for them, Nomad’s reins in his hand.

“Can you stay where you’re put? Just once?” Bucky grumbled as Steve swung into the saddle.

“Probably not,” Steve said. “You should be used to that by now.”

“He is,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to complain about it.” Bucky gave him a look, his eyes narrowed into slits, and Sam grinned at him, unconcerned. “Yeah, you’re a real threat.”

“Can I kill him?” Bucky asked Steve, never taking his eyes off of Sam.

Steve watched the second hand tick its way around the clock face, smooth and even. “No,” he said, without even looking up. Bucky muttered something under his breath, and Steve struggled to keep a straight face. He snapped the watch shut and slipped it back into his pocket, letting his hand rest there on top of it for a moment. “The two of you are going to be friends if it kills you both.”

“Yeah, but him first,” Bucky said, and Sam just laughed. Bucky kicked his horse, and shot forward, cantering across the cobblestones for the center of the city.

Shaking his head, Steve nudged Nomad forward, falling in behind him. Sam was right beside him. “Watch giving you trouble?” he asked.

Steve shrugged, his hand coming up to cover his pocket. “It’s been through a lot,” he said.

Sam nodded. “You know that Shuri would’ve fixed it for you, don’t you?” he asked. “Hell, something like that, anyone could’ve-”

“I know,” Steve said. He gave Sam a nod. “Let’s go. You had someone for us to meet?”

“She’s waiting for us at your place. Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re determined to get us both arrested, aren’t you.”

Tony flipped the lock on the door with a twist of his wrist, ignoring the way it squeaked in protest. “You’re the one that’s going to land us in jail,” he said, giving Hank a look. “Can you stop deliberately antagonizing people?”

Hank made a frustrated sound, shoving a hand through his hair. It flopped right back into his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice. “You really think that flirting is better?”

“First-” Tony stalked around him and grabbed a box from the shelf, tossing it down on the counter. It bounced hard on the wood, and Hank glared at him. Tony arched an eyebrow. “That wasn’t flirting.” Hank snorted, and Tony ignored him. “Second, yes.”

“That was shameless flirting,” Hank said, nudging the box away from his work with a twitch of one elbow. “And how do you figure?”

“He was military,” Tony said.

Hank groaned. “He wasn’t-”

“Sweet mother, how have you not learned to recognize an ex-soldier? There are enough of them in this damn city,” Tony said. He looked back at the window, a nervous twitch of a movement. “The way he stood, the way he moved, the way he kept his head moving? He was a soldier.”

“And like you said, the city’s full of them,” Hank shot back. “So-”

“Military down here and not up at the castle?” Tony gave him a smile. “He’s City Guard.”

Hank glared down at his work. “You’re mad. He’s not.”

“Want to put money on that? Because I’m willing to put money on it.” Tony ducked under the counter, digging out his toolkit from behind a pile of ruined clockworks. “Five’ll get you ten that the next time you see him, he’ll be in uniform, and that’s a whole other mess for us to deal with.”

“Us?” Hank said, his head coming up. “How is this an ‘us,’ Tony?”

“Because when you-” Tony stressed the word, “Antagonize the guard, then they take that personally. They come back. Over and over. To ‘keep an eye on you.’” He tossed a ledger into the box, and covered that up with a few pieces of broken mechanisms. “What I did? I fixed his watch, I smiled at him, and I sent him safely, and politely, on his way.”

“You picked. His pocket,” Hank said, his voice dire. Tony stopped, and gave a broad, theatrical shrug. Hank groaned. “Tony. He was leaving. He was actively trying to leave. And you not only stopped him from doing the thing we wanted him to do, which is leaving, but you stole from him!”

“And he forgave me.” Tony slapped the box closed. “So, why are you-”

Hank leaned back on his stool, his head tipped back. “Once. Just once. I’d like you to control yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Tony asked, insulted. He braced a hand on top of the box. “I have vast amounts of control, vast and-”

Hank snapped back towards the counter, the stool scraping against the floor. “Two things you cannot resist,” he said, holding up two fingers. “One. A pretty face. And two? Anything shiny someone tells you that you can’t touch.”

Tony stopped. Hank stared at him. “It was broken,” he said, his voice pained, and Hank grabbed a cloth from the counter and flung it at his head. Tony ducked. “Look, it’s-” Another rag hit him in the shoulder, and he brushed it away with a disdainful flick of his fingers. “That’s a gross oversimplification, and you know it.”

“True,” Hank said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You also have a problem with pretty faces you’re not allowed to touch.”

“You may have a point on that one,” Tony said. He scooped up the box. “And none of it matters, Hank. None of it matters because I fixed his watch, and sent him on his way. We’ll never see him again.” He gave Hank a bright smile. “Just. The way. We want it.”

Hank peered at him over the rims of his glasses. “Right,” he said, drawing the word out. “The way I want it.” He leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. “But maybe not you.”

Tony opened his mouth to object, and Hank’s eyebrows arched. Tony sighed. “Fine,” he said, bracing the box on one hip “He was easy on the eyes. And with better manners than most of the guard.”

Satisfied, Hank went back to his work. “The City Guard is fine.” He reached for a knife. “Mostly. It’s the King’s Elite you should be watching out for.”

Tony leaned in. “I’m watching out for anyone in a uniform,” he said, and Hank rolled his eyes. “I need to go home before I’m missed. Can you promise you won’t be raided in the next-” He made a show of looking around, checking the various clocks that were ticking away on the walls. “Ten hours or so?”

Hank mumbled something under his breath, already focused back on his work. Tony watched him for a moment, a fond smile creeping over his face. “Useless,” he said, hefting the box onto his shoulder.

“Trouble, trouble and more trouble,” Hank responded, but even though his head was still down over the gears of his mechanism, Tony could hear the smile in his voice.

“Keep the door locked,” he said, even as he kicked the curtain to the back room out of the way. There was no response, and Tony turned around, leaning back into the shop. “Did you hear-”

“Go home!” Hank said, and, laughing, Tony let the curtain fall back into place.

The backroom was small and narrow, the space pressing against the neighboring buildings, with all the odd angles and empty voids that resulted from that. Hank had filled every available inch of space, boxes and jars filling crooked shelves and alcoves. A few clocks, in various states of repair, were lined up neatly on the small workbench, waiting for parts, or just waiting for attention. Tony stroked a finger along the beautiful curve of one, disturbing the dust on the crystal face. 

“No wonder we can’t make rent,” he muttered under his breath, even as he hooked a foot under a shelf, tipping it up.

There was a faint click, and the shelves shifted, the contents rattling with the small movement. Tony slipped a hand behind it and pulled it forward, revealing the dark, twisting stairs down into the basement. He wriggled through the gap, the box held over his head. As soon as he was through, he fumbled behind him, grabbing the handle in the darkness and pulling the shelf back into place.

Instantly, the darkness swallowed him, and he closed his eyes, sucking in a slow breath through his nose. The air smelled damp, like wet soil and musty paper. Bracing his free hand on the wall, he descended the stairs, feeling his way with every step. The box pulled him off balance, and he ignored it, counting each step.

He stepped off the stairs, and the instant his foot hit the floor, a pale blue light bloomed, filling the cracks between the stones, flowing outward like water. It lapped along the floor, swirling like mist around his boots, clinging to his legs as he walked.

Tony waited until it settled into a steady, cool glow, tracing the cracks of the floor, revealing arcane symbols set into the pattern of the stones. The light pulsed, like a heartbeat, like the tides, and he always hated that. He resisted the urge to kick his foot across the stone, like a child in a puddle, just to see if the light would splash the same way.

Instead, he picked his way to the middle of the design, and crouched down, the box braced on one knee. He took a breath, and another, and tried to ignore the way the light seemed to match it. He reached out, his fingers spread, and pressed his palm against the stone.

The lash of pain was expected, and yet, it always shocked him.

Like lightning along the length of his arm, straight to his heart, the power sizzled across his skin, lighting a hard, geometric pattern beneath his skin. He focused on it, because he could understand that, he could feel that, the vicious strokes of an unseen pen that moved under his skin, moving straight to his breastbone.

The blue light enveloped his chest, and he was gone.

An instant later, he was home, and he wrenched his hand free from another set of stones, another symbol another burning glow. He stumbled backwards, his head spinning, his eyes focused on his arm. The blue light flickered and died, leaving black lines in its wake.

One breath, two, and those were gone, too, faded into nothingness.

Tony straightened up, ignoring the way his legs wobbled under him. The box threatened to slip from his grasp, and he fumbled for it, hugging it to his chest with both hands. His fingertips were numb, and a faint taste of sweet copper lingered on the back of his tongue, but he was home, and the rest, he could ignore.

He plodded forward, trying to ignore the exhaustion that tugged at him. “That… Might’ve been too much,” he mumbled, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He shook his head, trying to get his blood back where it belonged. He didn’t want to stay here. He didn’t want to spend any time here, that he didn’t have to spend. He took another step, and the world seemed to tip sideways. Tony sucked in a breath. “That… Was too much.”

The box slipped out of his fingers, crashing to the workshop floor, and Tony stumbled backwards, his shoulders hitting the wall. He slid down to the floor, fighting the descent the whole way. One hand bounced against the remains of the workbench, the raw, charred edge scraping against his palm.

He didn’t want to be here.

The side of his face hit the floor, and it was a shock, the cold of the stone and the lingering smell of ashes that filled his mouth, filled his throat. His fingers scraped against the stone, against the front of his shirt, pulling hard at the fabric there, against the skin over his breastbone.

He refused to open his eyes, because he didn’t want to see.

“Tony?”

His eyes snapped open. Pepper. Pepper. That was bad. That was all bad. Pepper shouldn’t see, couldn’t- The words were jumbled in his head, but his body was already moving, his hands pushing against the stone, trying to get his legs under him.

“Tony?” She sounded worried now, and that was bad.

Tony bit back a curse, shoving the box under the remains of the workbench. “Coming!” he called, scrambling back to his feet. The door to the workshop opened, the hinges protesting the small movement. “I’m-”

Pepper leaned in, her spectacles catching the pale light. “You’re late,” she said, in a bare whisper. Her face was pale, her freckles standing out like bruises on her skin. She was hugging a bundle of cloth to her chest. “Dinner-”

Tony’s stomach rolled over. “Obie’s never home on Tuesday,” he said, ripping his shirt off and tossing it towards the bench. A wave of ash and dust floated to the floor. Without being asked, Pepper held out a clean shirt, and he stepped into it. “Pep. He never-”

“There was trouble at the university,” she said, and there was a faint tremor to her voice, her hands shaking as she helped him do up the buttons. “Ty-”

“Of course Ty,” Tony bit out, tucking his shirt into his pants, as Pepper smoothed his collar down. “It’s been, what, a whole month since the last time that the deans had to call him out on the carpet.”

He made to move past her, and Pepper caught his arm. “He’s in a foul mood, Tony,” she said, her mouth tight. She scrubbed at his cheek, her teeth digging into her lower lip. “You’re a mess.”

Tony nodded. “Was he cruel to you?” he asked, cupping her face between his palms. “Just say the word, and I’ll have him killed.”

That won him a smile, small and quick, but real. “Worry about yourself,” she said, tapping him on the nose with one little fist, a joking punch. Still, he staggered back, making a show of grabbing for the wall. Pepper shook her head.“You’re in so much trouble.”

“When am I not?” he asked, catching her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “Did you cover for-”

“When do I not?” she shot back, her head jerking towards the door. “Go. If you manage to get up there before the main course, you might get by without much comment.”

“Going,” he said, ignoring the way that every deep breath hurt. Too many times. He realized that his hand was fisted over his breastbone, the fabric of his shirt tangled in his fingers. As if that could keep anyone else from seeing. From knowing what was happening.

With a force of will, he smoothed his shirt back into place, and let his hand fall back to his side. 

He could’ve made the trip from the old workshop up to the main floor with his eyes closed. He had done almost that often enough in the past, sneaking along the hallways and down the old stone stairs in the dark, trying to avoid prying eyes. At some point, he’d memorized the number of steps from the workshop door to the bottom of the stairs, the number of stairs to the main floor, the length of the hallway to the kitchen, to the parlor, to the music room, to the grand ballroom, to the dining room.

The hallway was quiet, Tony’s steps echoing along the length as he hurried up the polished wooden floor. Late afternoon light filtered through the high, wide windows, catching the gilt edges of picture frames and old, well polished furniture. Tony let his fingers trail across a table here and there, turning a vase away from the wall, straightening the lace cover on the red velvet settee. 

Habit, by now. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Including him.

Tony paused in front of the dining room doors, two massive heavy panels that towered over him, and he hated how those closed doors always made him feel like a child. A child that was never so sure of his welcome. He took a deep breath, his hands resting lightly on the handles. He straightened his shoulders, his chin coming up, and pushed the door open.

One look was all it took to confirm that Pepper’s guess was right. Obie was in a foul mood. 

Tony paused in the doorway, his hand still resting on the doorknob. It felt cold and damp under his palm. “Good evening,” he said, and the words echoed, hollow and empty, in the massive dining room. Obie was seated in his customary place at the head of the table, his large, ornately carved chair having the appearance of a throne. On his right side, and slightly closer, Ty was drinking his wine, ignoring his overflowing plate. He was slumped low in his chair, his well-tailored clothing in disarray and his face set in petulant lines. He glared at Tony over the top of his wineglass, his eyes promising retribution. On Obie’s other side, Justin was focused on his plate, his movements quick and nervous as he reached for one thing, and then another, indecisive and uncertain. Ty flicked a pea at him, and it hit Justin in the shoulder, making him twitch.

Obie, for his part, didn’t even look up from his plate. “You’re late,” he said, his voice mild. He trimmed the meat on his plate with care, wielding his knife and fork with surgical precision. “Quite late.”

“Yes, sir.” Tony resisted the urge to scrub his hands on the legs of his pants. It wouldn’t do much good, they were as filthy as his hands. 

“Where have you been?” Obie’s fork clicked against the plate as he set it down, and he reached for his wineglass. 

“The irrigation system on the lower fields has been acting up,” Tony said. “It’s not drawing the way it should. And with harvest coming up fast-”

Obie waved him off. “Yes. That would be important.” He considered Tony over the top of his glass. “Did you finish the repairs to the smokehouse?”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said.

“The wall beyond the hay fields?”

“Yes, sir.” He resisted the urge to fill in the rest of his ‘to-do’ list. Obie didn’t like to cede control of the conversation. “It’ll hold through the lambing season.”

“I’ll have you take another look at it before the frost,” Obie said. He took a long sip of his wine. “Repaired the shelves in the dairy?” 

Tony’s legs ached. He locked his knees. “Yes, sir.” 

“And the cider press?”

“Yes, sir.” Easier than the rest, there’d been nothing wrong with it, other than Justin’s general incompetence. Not that he’d ever point it out, since ‘Justin says it can’t be fixed’ was about half of his jobs these days. 

Obie set his glass down. “You look pale, Anthony.” His eyes tipped up from under the heavy line of his brows. “Did you have another attack?”

“No.” The lie came easily to his lips. 

Obie’s smile was slight and gentle. “Sit down,” he said, waving at the empty chair at the foot of the table. “Before you fall down.”

The distance from the door to the table seemed insurmountable. He started forward anyway. “Thank you, sir.”

His chair was removed from theirs, both in physical distance and in style. Made of plain, unadorned wood with no cushion on the back or the seat, it was set at the far end of the table, well away from the rest of the family. That was where it always stayed, and that was where Tony always sat. Well out of reach from the heavy serving platters of savory, well-seasoned meat and crisp vegetables, gleaming under a cloak of sauce or clarified butter. Baskets filled with bread, studded with nuts and raisins, warred for space with pots of jam and plates of pickles, and bottle after bottle after bottle of wine.

Tony lowered himself into his chair, and picked up his spoon with fingers that shook. The covered clay bowl in front of his seat was still warm, and released a cloud of warm air when he opened it. Mrs. Arbogast did her best, but there was only so much she could do with porridge without Obie noticing and taking her to task for interfering with Tony’s diet.

But he could taste the honey in the first bite.

“You shouldn’t be late to dinner,” Obie said, refilling his glass. “It’s disrespectful, Anthony.”

“You usually have council on Tuesdays,” Tony said, and Ty’s lips twisted into a snarl.

“Usually, yes,” Obie said. “Justin, my boy, don’t play with your food.” Justin started in his seat, his eyes blinking owlishly behind the lenses of his spectacles. Obie gave him a fond, if exasperated smile. “Manners, son.”

“Yes, sir.” Justin bent his head over his food, concentrating very hard on cutting his potatoes in perfect pieces. 

Ty flicked another pea at his brother, and this one pinged off of the top of Justin’s head. He didn’t respond, but his shoulders twitched, a silent flinch. “Give it up, he’s hopeless,” he said, and Obie snatched the spoon out of his hand.

“At least he tries,” he said, giving Ty a stern look. “You, meanwhile…” He let his voice trail away in a meaningful manner, and Ty looked away. 

“At least he showed up on time,” he said, reaching for his knife. He flicked it back and forth in his hand, letting the light play across the blade. “And with clean hands.”

“And Anthony has done everything I’ve asked of him today,” Obie said, his voice quiet. “The same cannot be said of you.” Ty’s fingers tightened on the knife, going white knuckled for a moment. Obie forked up a bite of of beef, and took his time chewing. “And after your test results today, I think it’s best if he goes over your classwork for you for the rest of the term.”

Tony focused on his porridge. The fact that he’d been ‘going over’ Ty’s classwork for the better part of the last two months was probably the reason for his test scores. Years ago, he’d just been checking Ty’s work, fixing minor errors or cleaning up his calculations. Somewhere along the way, though, Ty had stopped giving him completed work, and instead, just gave him the assignments.

If Obie had any idea that Tony was doing all of Ty’s work now, he never let on.

“Perhaps I can start taking classes on my own,” Tony said, dragging his spoon through his porridge. “Be easier for me to help him if I was at University with him.”

Obie was already shaking his head. “Anthony, nothing would make me happier, you know that. You’re such a clever boy, so-” He paused, a faint smile creasing his cheeks. “You know, when your father died, I thought we would lose you, too.”

Tony stared down at his bowl, the porridge suddenly too thick to swallow. “Yes, sir.”

“You were so sick,” Obie said. “So…” He shook his head. “And with your heart condition, I spent so many sleepless nights, sitting beside your bed. Waiting.” He leaned back in his chair, his napkin crumbled in one hand like a handkerchief. “I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life. I hope you never have to go through what I went through, trying to keep you alive.”

He stood up. “I know I seem harsh. I know, the world seems so unfair, sometimes. But when I inherited your father’s estate, even though no mention was made of you in his will, even though no provision was made for you, I knew you would be part of our family, and I would do anything I could to keep you safe.

“And that has been what I’ve done, ever since. I’ve given you structure, and stimulation, and a sense of purpose. I’ve given you a home.” He set his napkin down. “That was all I could do, Anthony.”

Tony knew he was waiting for a reply. “I know.” He forced the words out from lips that didn’t want to move. He tried to smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“And someday, when you’re stronger, when Dr. Essex thinks your heart's strong enough, when those... “ Obie made a face. “Attacks of yours stop, then there will be a place at the University for you. I’ve made sure of it.”

He straightened his vest with a few quick, efficient movements. “But in the meantime, Dr. Essex thinks it best for you to work hard, get lots of fresh air, eat carefully, and stay here. Where you’re safe.”

Obie smiled at him, and the fireplace behind him cast his face in sharp relief. “Like a good boy.”

Tony smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

Obie nodded. “That’s my boy,” he said, his voice approving. And Tony hated how much better that made him feel. Obie straightened up. “Since you were late, though, I think you should clear the table tonight. I’ll let Mrs. Arbogast know that you’re to wash the dishes tonight.” He arched an eyebrow, a jovial smile on his face. “I think that’s a fitting punishment, don’t you?”

Tony went back to his porridge. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Obie’s hand landed, heavy and firm, on his shoulder, his fingers squeezing, and Tony felt some of the tension in his chest bleed away. He held on, just for a moment, and then he was gone, walking past Tony’s seat without a glance back.

The door to the dining room shut behind him, and Tony reached for his glass of water. “Did you fail?” he asked, his voice calm.

Ty’s lips curled back in a snarl. “Despite your best efforts, no,” he said, and on the other side of the table, Justin shifted in his seat, his shoulders hunched forward. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” Tony said. He took a sip of water. “Your father hasn’t found a way for me to take your tests.” He paused. “Yet. But I suppose necessity is the mother of invention, so-”

Ty leaned back in his chair. “They realized my latest papers aren’t up to my usual standards,” he said with a wry twist to his lips. “Almost like someone else wrote them.”

Tony’s eyebrows arched. “Considering how long it took them to realize that,” he mused, “then I have to question if they’ve actually been paying attention.”

“Or someone recently started getting lazy,” Ty said. He gave his wrist a twist, letting the wine in his glass swirl almost to the rim. “Or wanted to get me in trouble.”

“Or like he’s writing papers for classes he’s not attending,” Tony said, his voice taking on an edge. “And has nothing to go on other than your notes. For whatever they’re worth.” He saluted Ty with his cup. “And trust me. They’re not worth much.”

“I think-” Justin said, and that was more than Tony had expected to hear from him tonight, but Ty cut him off.

“You should be grateful,” Ty said, his voice icy. “This is as close as you’ll ever get to the University, Ashony.” The word was mocking, in a childish sing-song. “Father’s just humoring you, and as stupid as you are, I think you know it.”

He stood up and picked up his plate, the motions slow and deliberate. “After all, you’re common, Ashony. Your mother was common, and so are you.”

He walked along the table, pausing next to Tony’s chair. He held out his plate, and when Tony reached for it, Ty met his eyes with a smile and let the thin porcelain slip from between his fingers. It tumbled to the floor and shattered with a crash. 

In the silence that followed, Ty’s smile stretched, cold and mocking. “So clumsy. It’s no wonder father keeps you hidden down in the basement. It would be bad enough for him, but I honestly think that he’s trying to preserve your father’s memory. After all, he used to be a well-respected man.”

He stepped forward, grinding his heel against the remains of the plate before he continued across the room and out the dining room doors. He didn’t bother to close them, and Tony went back to his porridge, ignoring the burning sensation that curled beneath his breastbone.

Justin cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t, uh, you shouldn’t tweak him like that,” he said. He fiddled with his fork. “Can’t you- Just keep your mouth shut for once.”

Tony looked at the shattered remains of the plate. “Right,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. He was so tired that he ached, but he went down, his movements clumsy, to one knee, and started collecting the pieces. “And how’s that working out for you?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Justin lunged to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards. It hit the floor with a crash, and Justin stood there, his hands in fists at his sides. “I- I- I-” His throat worked, and he gave the table a vicious push. A wineglass wobbled on its base and tipped over, the red wine splashing across the snowy white tablecloth. “I’m doing better than you. Aren’t I?” His face flushed, his eyes too bright behind his glasses, he drew himself to his full height. “I’m doing much better than you. And I always will.”

Tony didn’t respond, didn’t even move, just let him stalk out of the room. Then he went back to collecting the remains of Ty’s plate, ignoring the way his fingers shook.

“What a mess.”

Tony looked up. “Sorry,” he said, as Mrs. Arbogast came bustling through the door to the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“We both know it wasn’t any of your doing,” she said, with a slight smile. She was a matronly woman, tall and broad, with snow white hair swept up in a precise twist at the crown of her head, and tiny round spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She had a stern stare, when she wanted to put someone in their place, but she was quick with praise and warm smiles.

Now, she studied Tony as she stacked up plates. “Go wash up,” she said, hefting a tray of dishes with well-practiced speed. “You’re a right mess.”

“It’s been a long day,” Tony said, gathering wine bottles in his arms. They rattled against each other, the glass gleaming in the reflected glow of the fire. “A very long day.”

“Always is, when the lord’s home for dinner,” she sighed. She gave the stain on the carpet a despairing look. “The young master?”

“He was in a mood,” Tony said. “And wasn’t concerned about the rest of us knowing.”

She snorted. “And no reason he should hide it. Not as if he’s ever faced a punishment for it.” She lead the way down the servant’s corridor to the kitchen. She nudged the door open with her hip. “Pepper?” Pepper, who was seated at the small table between the old hearth and the new ovens, looked up from her ledgers. Mrs. Arbogast set the plates down beside the sink with a sigh. “Would you help us clear the table tonight, dear? The boys have made quite a mess.”

Pepper looked at Tony, her lips pursed. “In my defense,” he started, and she closed her ledger and held it up over her head like a bludgeon. Laughing, Tony skipped back out of reach. “In my defense,” he repeated, “I think they were all in a bad mood before I got there.”

“And I’m sure they were in a worse mood when you left,” Pepper said with a smile.

“They left before me, so…” Tony shrugged as he piled the wine bottles on the counter. “I was in a better mood.” That might’ve been a lie. He wasn’t sure any longer. “And now, I have dishes to do.”

“Not with your hands shaking the way they are,” Mrs. Arbogast said. “We’ve had enough broken plates for one night, thank you.” She flapped her apron in Tony’s direction. “Go. Sit down. Pepper, there’s some tea in the pot, pour me a cup and fill one for Tony while you’re at it.”

The door to the yard opened, and Happy poked his head in. “Evening, all!” He walked through the door sideways, a bushel of apples braced on one hip. He was a big man, with big shoulders, a barrel chest, and a nose that had been broken more than once. At home as much in the fields as he was under Obie’s newest engine, he was a jack of all trades, filling in wherever Tony couldn’t. “Tony, you left your toolbox down by the pump room?”

“I know.” Tony tried to take the apples from him, and Happy brushed past him. “The irrigation system needs a little more adjustment, and I got sick of dragging things back and forth, when I knew I just had to go back.”

“Right.” Happy put the basket down with a sigh, bracing his hands on the small of his back. “Harvest help can’t come soon enough, I haven’t enough hands to keep up with it.”

Pepper made a face, even as she handed him a cup of tea. “Mr. Stane has been very reluctant to hire this year,” she said, giving the ledgers a puzzled look. “And I don’t know why. Financially, the estate is doing well.”

“He doesn’t like anything crossing the wards,” Happy said, an apple in one hand and a tea cup in the other. He took a large bite from his apple and continued to talk, his mouth full. “He thinks it weakens the blessin’s, you know that.” He wiped his mouth on the back of one wrist. “Lotta people stomping around makes him anxious.”

“Theft,” Mrs. Arbogast said. “There used to be a lot more staff, I should know. But one of the maids tried to steal from him, and after that-” She snapped her fingers. “All of them. Gone.”

“I mean, maybe so,” Happy said. He sipped his tea. “Don’t think so, though. I think he’s gettin’ paranoid about how things are going at court. Every time I drive him to the capitol, he’s tense as a scalded cat the whole way back. And then, next thing you know, the Acolytes are down from the church again, building up the wards.”

“Three times this year,” Pepper said, stirring her tea as she frowned down at the ledger. “And twice last year.” Her eyes darted up. “Is he… Worried about violence?”

Happy shrugged. “Don’t know, to be honest. But he’s scared of something. Something he thinks the wards’ll keep out. But that means, he doesn’t want to hire help for the harvest. And despite all of Tony’s advances, I can’t do it by myself.” He looked at Tony. “The irrigation-”

Tony nodded. “I’ll… I’ll get it done.”

Mrs. Arbogast caught his shoulder, her hand falling in exactly the same spot that Obie’s had. Tony wondered why it felt completely different. “Tomorrow,” she said, smiling just a little.

Tony smiled back. “Tomorrow I have other things to do,” he said, his voice almost apologetic. “I’ll…” Exhaustion was a constant companion by now. Jobs. So many jobs. So many things to do, to think of, to handle, to- He shook his head, refusing to dwell on that. “I need to get my toolbox, at least.”

Her mouth went tight, but she didn’t fight him any more. “We’ll do the dishes,” she said, pressing a napkin into his hands. “Be careful.” He nodded, his hands closing around the cloth. He felt the weight of it and knew what it was, not that either of them would ever acknowledge it. It was too dangerous for both of them.

But when he was safely outside, past the kitchen garden, down past the wall and halfway to the lower fields, he unwrapped it. Two thick slices of bread, spread with a soft, yielding cheese were nestled in the center of the fabric, tucked alongside a few small pieces of chicken. Nothing like the feast that had been spread out on the dining room table, but far more than he was allowed, under most circumstances.

He’d feel guilty about putting her at risk like this, because if Obie found out, Mrs. Arbogast would be the one to pay the price. But he never got used to being hungry.

Tony folded the napkin back around the food, not willing to eat it. Not yet. It was going to be a very long night.

*

The cottage was a small stone building with a heavy thatch roof, with clouded glass windows and a rather off-kilter chimney. It had a certain charm, with walls covered in ivy and the overgrown garden behind the tumbledown stone walls. The wooden gate to they yard had only one working set of hinges, and Steve had to give it a firm shove to get it open.

“The last tenant had geese, so the walls were well kept, and there’s an old coop around back.” Carol Danvers was tall and long-limbed, with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. She barely seemed to notice the squash vines that ran wild across the pathway that lead to the front door, stepping easily over the broad leaves. “The garden-” She gave the heavy headed sunflowers and overgrown patches of mint a look through narrowed eyes. “Needs help.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, kicking at a tendril with one boot. “That’s one way of putting it.” He crouched down, lifting a leaf. “Steve, give me your knife.”

“You’ve got your own knife,” Steve said, amused despite himself. “I know you do.” He kicked a clump of tall grass away from the base of the door, uncovering a flat stone that served as the stoop.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to get mine dirty,” Bucky said. Sam gave him a firm shove on one shoulder, and he rocked forward. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” Sam said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t see you there.” He stepped around Bucky. “Anyone had a look at the hearth?”

“Chimney’s been swept,” Danvers said, giving the front door a bump with one hip and shoving it open. “The Council was afraid that a traveler would take advantage of the relative safety during a storm, and if it wasn’t, we could have a fire on our hands.”

She stepped aside, waving a hand at the door. “Well. It’s not much, but it’ll do.”

Steve moved cautiously around her, ducking his head to clear the threshold. “I suppose it will,” he said.

The inside of the cottage was better than he’d been expecting. Light filtered in from the open door, and a handful of windows that were dusty, but still intact. The floor was stone, and needed a sweeping, as did the thick wooden beams at ceiling level. But Steve could stand up straight inside, without bumping his head, and the hearth looked much better than the chimney did. There were a handful of shelves along the walls, and a heavy wooden chair in front of the fireplace. An empty bedframe was tipped up against the wall, gathering dust, and a table and another chair sat beneath the front window. There was a wooden ladder against the wall, leading up into the dim space beneath the roof. Dust motes swirled through the air, catching the light, and there was a faintly stale smell to the air. Like old books or damp soil, the smell hung in the air, barely stirred by the open door.

“There’s a kitchen in the back,” Danvers said, peering around Steve’s shoulder. “With a coal oven. Not the newest, but solid enough. Old Wickersham preferred cooking over a wood fire, I suppose, the old iron pots are still there, by the hearth.”

Steve moved into the room, ducking down to peer up into the chimney. “Appreciate that. I’m… Old fashioned myself, so…” 

Danvers ran her finger across the tabletop, her nose wrinkling as she flicked the dust away from her hand. “The Captain’s put in an order for another bed, but you might have to take the floor until-”

Bucky, pacing around the room, grabbed the ladder and gave it a brisk shake. It clattered against the stone, throwing off cobwebs, but it held despite the abuse. Danvers fell silent as Bucky clambered up the ladder into the loft. There was a moment of silence. “I’ll sleep up here,” Bucky declared.

She blinked. “All… Right?” she managed. She looked at Sam, who shrugged.

“He likes to be tall,” Sam said, his arms crossed over his chest. Without even looking up, he took a step to the side, right before the remains of a sack of some sort hit the floor where he’d been standing. Sam smiled at nothing in particular. “Missed.”

“Don’t worry, I got more,” Bucky said, and Steve sighed.

“Maybe two mattresses,” he said to Danvers. “Even a straw tick-”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, peering up the ladder. “You know that’s for food storage, right? That’s where we put apples. And preserves.”

“There’s a cat up here,” Bucky said.

Danvers rested an elbow on the rung of the ladder, her chin on her fist. “How nice,” she said, sounding amused. Sam, already moving the chairs out into the garden, shook his head.

“What do I do with it?” Bucky asked.

Danvers seemed to think about that for a moment. “Do you have any food?”

“Got some jerky.”

“Great. Just give the cat some of that,” Danvers said, turning around to face Steve. “Some supplies are being boxed up and we’ll send a cadet over. The market’s your best place to find anything else. If you need to change your coin, head to the central bank, but most of the merchants’ll take foreign money, even if they’re not going to give you the best deal on it.”

“Get it changed,” Steve said, opening a window with care. It stuck, the wood warped from moisture and disuse, but he was able to budget it without breaking it. “Understood.”

“Right. You should-”

“Now what?” Bucky called, and she stopped.

Danvers turned around. “Now what?” she repeated. “Did you give the cat-”

“Yeah, it ate it,” Bucky interrupted. “Now it’s just sitting there. Looking at me.”

“Congratulations,” Danvers drawled. “You now own a cat.”

She dusted her hands off on her hips, shifting her belt, as Bucky’s head appeared, hanging upside down from the ceiling. He glared at the back of her head, his eyes narrowed into slits, which was hard to take seriously with his hair hanging on end. Steve tried his best to turn a burst of laughter into a cough. Danvers grinned at him. “You’ll both be on the shift roster by the end of the week,” she said. “See you tomorrow for training.”

“I didn’t want a cat,” Bucky told her.

Danvers head tipped back, blinking up at him. “Then why did you feed it?” she asked him with an easy smile. “Besides.” She shrugged. “You’ll need it to keep the mice at bay.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you need anything, Wilson can be trusted.” Her lips kicked up in a wry smile. “For the most part.”

“That’s the conclusion I’ve reached as well,” Steve said, smiling back. Sam walked past again, arms piled high with pots. “He’s stealing my furniture now, though, so, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Everything in here is filthy, you want to just dump a bucket over the room, or do you want to take it outside and maybe avoid breathing some of it in?” Sam asked. He looked into one of the pots. “It wouldn’t be my choice, but-”

Bucky slid down the ladder, rattling the rungs on the way. “No, seriously-” he started, as a raggedy looking black and white cat with one lopsided ear came scrambling down the ladder after him, leaping neatly onto his shoulder. Bucky did his best not to flinch, but he wasn’t entirely successful. His head tipped as far away from it as he could get, he gritted out, “Get it off of me.”

“Well, what a gorgeous little baby,” Danvers said, scooping the cat off of his shoulder, her hands cradling its slight weight. “Down we go.” She leaned over, setting the cat on the floor and paused to rub its ears. “Now, be a good little mouser.”

She straightened up. “We have a problem here?” she asked, her eyes catching on each of them in turn. Then, with a nod, she headed for the door. “Tomorrow, gentlemen.” She paused, her foot on the stoop, her hand on the doorframe. She looked back, a bright smile on her face. “Welcome home.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

With a quick flick of a salute, she was out the door and gone, her long strides eating up the distance to the road, where her horse was waiting. Steve watched her go, feeling a little better about their situation. The cottage wasn’t much, but it was more than they needed, and better than most of the places he’d lived. And Danvers was no one’s fool, she had sharp eyes and strong hands, and more than that, a quick tongue. He’d had worse commanding officers.

“What- Are you having a staring contest with a cat?”

Steve turned around, and yes, that’s exactly what Bucky was doing. “No,” Bucky said, his face set in a frown, but he never took his eyes off of the cat. “Why is it following me.”

“Because you fed it,” Sam said, spreading his hands. “You gave it food.”

“She told me to!”

“Yeah, she can’t be trusted! How did you not know what- Did you-” Sam shook his head. “Did you think the general nature of cats had changed in the past few years? Did you think that cats are different now?” He looked down at the scrawny little black and white cat. “What the hell were cats like when you lived here?”

“Are you going to take that thing?” Bucky asked him.

“It’s not my cat,” Sam said, and Steve put an arm between them before Bucky could go for his throat.

“All right, let’s just-” He pressed, pushing Bucky backwards by a step or two. “I’ll deal with the cat.”

“Deal with it by getting rid of it?” Bucky said, glaring down at the cat, who had started to rub up against his ankles, its whole body vibrating with a purr.

“Or, you know, Danvers is probably right about the mice,” Steve said. He nudged Bucky another step back, but it was no longer an effort to separate him from Sam. Steve let his arm drop, and crouched down, holding his hand out to the cat. It sniffed delicately at his fingertips, and then rubbed the side of its face up against Steve’s hand. “Besides. It seems like a nice enough cat.”

“Right. It’s yours,” Bucky said, turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll go see if the well out back is still drawing.” He stomped off, his shoulders hunched, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor.

The cat was right on his heels the entire way, its tail bouncing with each step.

Steve braced his arm on his upthrust knee. “I’ve lived with worse,” he said, and pushed himself upright. 

Sam watched Bucky go, one eyebrow arched. “I mean, you are living with worse,” he said. His head rolled in Steve’s direction. “I can still get you a spot in the barracks.”

“Sam…”

“No one would blame you. Except maybe the cat…”

Steve wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Just for that,” he said with a broad smile, “you can clean out the stable.”

Sam nodded. “Worth it.”

*

By the time Tony finished with the pump, it was so dark out that he could barely see well enough to get the key into the hole. He managed to get the door locked mostly by touch, and slipped the key into his pocket, pushing it down low. Every door on the estate had its own key, and each key had its own hook on the wall of Obie’s study. 

And if any of them were missing, or out of place, they’d all hear about it.

With his toolbox in one hand and the bread Mrs. Arbogast had given him in the other, he considered the long trek back to the manor house. It wasn’t particularly appealing, and it’d be safer to eat before he set foot back onto the main grounds.

Tony’s head tipped to the side, looking through the darkness at the river just beyond the pumphouse. He couldn’t see it particularly well, but he could hear it, the water rolling over the rocks and splashing against the bank. It was low at this time of year, and the sound was soft and familiar.

There was a lantern hanging next to the door, and he set his toolbox down before he reached for it. There was somewhere else he could go, and suddenly, he wanted to. 

By the flickering light of the lantern, he crossed the fields, keeping the sound of the running water on his right. Down in a hollow of the land, next to a bend in the river, the old weeping willow bent low over the water. Its long, trailing branches swung in the breeze, the leaves rattling with every move. Tony ducked down, following the path under the sheltering branches.

There, at the base of the tree, there was a single white stone. 

His footsteps were silent here, muffled by the moss that grew thick and heavy over the ground. The branches blocked the wind, and held in the light of the lantern, and he didn’t mind the heavy feeling of the air here, damp against his lips. He set the lantern down and brushed a few leaves off of the stone, his fingers lingering.

The lamplight caught on the words carved on the stone’s surface, but he could’ve recited them from memory now. 

“Here lies Maria.   
A simple woman who loved her son.”

Tony sank down, leaning against the tree trunk, letting his head fall back. “Common,” he said, with a slight smile. “Simple.” He balanced the napkin on his upthrust knee. “I suppose that might be true, but-” He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I care.”

He stared up at the tree, and held up a hand, spreading his fingers wide. “I miss you. You and Dad, both. But mostly you. Or maybe, just the idea of you.”

Tony lowered his hand to his chest. He traced the scar tissue there. “I miss a lot of things.”

Beyond the shelter of the tree’s branches, the wind kicked up, and the branches swayed, leaves floating down to land on his head. He reached up, picking one out of his hair. “I suppose that’s as close as I’ll get to tears,” he said, rolling the stem between his finger and thumb. He tucked it into his pocket, and turned his attention to dinner.

It was nice not to eat alone, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re late.”

Tony took a deep breath, and it tasted of copper. “Yes, it was a long night,” he managed, as the glow faded around his feet. He yawned, doing his best to keep eye contact with Hank, who was leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not like you wait for me to open the shop.”

Hank made a face. “Ben’s been here since dawn,” he said, his voice dire.

Tony winced. “Right. “In my defense-” he said, as the door at the top of the stairs flew open, cutting him off mid-word.

Jan Van Dyne came bouncing down the stairs, catching Hank by the shoulder and ducking around him. “You said you’d call me!” she said, hopping down to the basement floor with both feet. She stared down at her boots, her hands spread out at her sides. “I still say there’s a magic word and you’re not telling me what it is.” She spun in place, the gold and black fabric of her skirts swirling around her boots, her face tipped towards Tony. “Tell me.”

Tony’s lips twitched. “There’s no magic word,” he said, catching her hand as she skipped in a wide circle around him, the toes of her boots poking at individual stones. “Hank-”

Hank shrugged, but there was a softness to his face now, a slight smile tugging at the corners of is mouth. “There is. Beat it out of him.”

Jan paused, her eyes big and bright under the fringe of her bangs. “I don’t want to,” she said, her voice solemn, “but I will if I have to.”

Tony grinned at her. “I could start reciting poetry, if you’d like, but it’s not going to work.”

“It could work.” Tony raised her hand, and she spun around beneath their joined fingers, lithe and easy. She moved constantly, with an energy and an enthusiasm that Tony found to be exhausting and exhilarating in equal parts. 

“But it won’t” Tony sing-songed at her, bracing his free hand on his hip. She skipped to the side, trying without success to find the right stone to step on. Tony grinned. “Jan. It only works for me.”

Hank straightened up, shoving his shock of blonde hair out of his eyes with one hand. “You don’t know that.”

“I know that it hasn’t worked for anyone else yet,” Tony pointed out.

“Yes, and we’ve had all, what, six people try?” Hank asked. “Not exactly a-” The sound of breaking glass echoed down from the shop, and his head snapped up. “REILLY!”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Not my fault!”

“Reilly, I told you, don’t touch ANYTHING!” Hank yelled, taking the steps two at a time.

Tony watched him go. “Meeting here was perhaps not my best idea,” he said.

Before he could follow, Jan reached out, bracing a hand in the middle of Tony’s chest. He paused, watching as Hank disappeared up the stairs. Only when he disappeared through the door on top did Tony look back at Jan. “What?” he asked, his head tipping forward.

She glanced up the stairs. “I need your help,” she said, the words hushed.

“Right, with what?” he ducked around her, taking a step onto the stairs. He preferred not to linger on the stone floor of the basement. It made his chest ache.

She didn’t move. “I’m experiencing-” Her nose wrinkled. “A slight deficit in funds.”

“Right. Your parents cut off your pocket money,” Tony interpreted, and she rolled her eyes. “I don’t suppose this deficit has anything to do with your new hair style?”

“My mother may have taken to her bed in hysterics,” Jan allowed, her eyes rolling up toward the ceiling. “Which my father blamed on me.”

Tony knew he shouldn’t laugh. It was harder than it should’ve been. “In that it was your fault.”

“It was not, I cut my hair, which has nothing at all to do with her,” Jan said, her voice tinged with poisonous sweetness. “It’s not as if I cut her hair.”

“I’m sure she would’ve preferred that,” Tony said. “In that she could blame you for it, and invest well in wigs.” He flicked at the hair that curled against her cheek. It swung right back into place, and she gave him a smug smile. Tony smiled back. “Has she gotten you fitted for one yet?”

“It fell in the fire,” Jan said, her eyes going wide in mock innocence. “Oops.”

“And that’s why you have no money,” Tony said.

“It may be,” she said. Hank was yelling upstairs, and Tony turned to look up the stairs. Jan grabbed his elbow. “I need your help. I need fabric, Tony.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Tony asked, his brow furrowing. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but I haven’t a coin to my name, Jan, it’s not like I can-” She was smiling up at him, and Tony’s stomach sank. “No.”

“One bolt,” she said. “We’ll be in and out before anyone even knows we’re there, and-”

“No,” Tony said.

“I know right where it’s stored, and I’d do it myself, but I need a lookout,” she said, the words so quick that they were almost running together. “I know who will be working that night, and if you can just-”

Tony leaned forward. “I am not stealing from Wilson Fisk,” he said, his voice firm. “And neither are you.”

Jan’s chin came up, her mouth a hard line. “I’m not stealing from anyone,” she said, biting off the words. “That workshop has been in my family for three generations now, since it was little more than a shop on the corner, my great-grandmother built it from nothing, and my grandmother improved it, and it’s not the fault of either of them that my mother has neither a head for business or a head for fashion, and now we’re beholden to that, that-” She stopped, her her jaw working. “It’s my designs that’s kept it running for the last five years, and-”

“And it wasn’t enough,” Tony said, and Jan fell silent. Tony sighed, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of it. “You know I don’t begrudge you a bolt of fabric, Jan. But Fisk will. And you don’t steal from the man. Even if he only owns half the stock.”

Jan took a deep breath. “And the other half is mine,” she said.

“Jan-”

“He will be dining with my parents that night, and Richard will be receiving a shipment from the docks,” she said. “The night supervisor never leaves his office, he’ll be working on the books and keeping an eye on the work floor from there. We can be in and out with what I need in less than fifteen minutes.”

Tony studied her. “Jan, it’ll be missed. Someone will take the blame.”

She gave a quick nod. “Yes. Me.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket, presenting it to Tony with a flick of her fingers.

Tony gave it a wary look. “What-”

Jan bit her lip, her eyelashes dipping in a flicker of modesty that Tony knew was a blatant lie. “Dearest Mr. Fisk,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her, the letter tucked between her fingers. “I have taken a bolt of fabric from the stores. I shall pay for it, as soon as I am able, but I pray you do not tell my parents. I am hard at work on a gift, and though I do not wish to spoil the surprise, my mother would not approve of me making a jacket for a man, no matter what his relationship to me may one day be. I shall settle my debt to the company as soon as I am able.” Her mouth trembled. “And it shall be soon.”

Tony leaned against the wall. “A letter,” he said, and she nodded. “Implying that you took it to make a betrothal gift for his son.” She nodded again. “And phrasing it in such a way that he’ll be inclined to be benevolent towards his soon to be daughter-in-law.”

The letter disappeared back into her pocket. “He likes to dote,” she said, her voice flat. “He likes to be seen as generous. As a benefactor.”

Tony shifted his weight, risking a quick glance up the stairs towards the shop. “Whatever you’re working on, Jan,” he said, his voice hushed, “it can wait until your parents loosen the purse strings again. There’s no reason for you to-”

“I need to finish your coat,” Jan said, and Tony stopped.

“My-” Tony’s stomach dropped, a sickening twist of nausea. Jan tried to smile, but it died, half formed on her lips. Tony shoved a hand through his hair. “Jan. Everything hinges on that-”

“I know,” Her fingers flexed at her sides, locking into fists for a moment. “I- I know.” She looked up at him, her sharp little chin raised high. “Would I be asking if I had any other choice?”

Tony exhaled. “No. You wouldn’t.” He reached out, his hand closing on one of hers, and it was so small. He marveled at that, every time, how small her hands were, and how strong they were despite that. “We have a few days. Let me see... “ He leaned forward, his forehead brushing against hers. “I’ll figure something out.”

She laughed, and it was watery and weak, but it was a real laugh. “And if you can’t?” Her eyes tipped up to meet his. “What then?”

Tony took a deep breath, his fingers squeezing hers. “Then we shall take back what is yours by right.”

She grinned. “Both of us will.” She took a step back, but didn’t pull her hand free of his. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Thank me by not getting me killed,” Tony said. He headed up the stairs, tugging her along with him. “Or arrested.” He glanced back at her. “Jan?”

“Yes?”

Tony grinned. “I really like your hair.”

“Thank you.” She tossed her head. “So do I.”

*

“The market’s open from sun up to sun down. Vendors show up when they can, leave when they’re done for the day. Most spots are inherited, passed on in family lines. Everyone knows where their place is, and they don’t need us to set the boundaries; if someone steps out of line, the rest’ll put them in their place.” 

Rhodes paused, a slight, amused smile flickering across his face. “Literally.”

Steve nodded, stepping to one side of the road to let a cart rattle past, wooden crates bouncing with each rotation of the wheels. “Leave the property disputes to the tenants, got it,” he said. “And the shops?”

“Post their hours,” Rhodes said, striding down the street, his long legs eating up the distance without giving any impression of rushing. He had a calm sort of confidence about him, and Steve got the feeling that he didn’t have to depend on the sword strapped to his hip very often. 

He turned a corner and paused, waiting for Steve to draw even with him. “For now, Captain Danvers has you and Barnes sticking to the main square, and the markets. Stay to the patrols you’re assigned. Some of our more…” His jaw worked. “Difficult residents need a bit more of a diplomatic hand than I’d expect you to have right now.” 

“Nobility?” Steve asked, his voice wry.

Rhodes grinned. “Sam said you were a smart one. Nice to know he’s still an excellent judge of character.” He looked at Steve out of the corner of his eyes. “Nobility and the wealthy. They have private guards, and we leave it at that. Things get rough, get word to Danvers. She’ll handle it.”

Steve nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Rhodes paused, one hand braced on his hip. “Sam says you used to live here?”

Steve glanced down the road. He knew where it went: straight through the heart of the city and to the castle. But the buildings that pressed in on the road were taller than he remembered, packed tight together. “It’s been a while,” he allowed, and Rhodes nodded. 

“It’ll come back to you,” he said, smiling. 

“I reckon it will,” Steve said. “So. Patrols.”

“The commander likes to keep us moving, keep us visible,” Rhodes said, and started walking again. “Keep the peace, watch for thieves, keep things calm.” He gave a nod at a group of men who were standing on the corner, deep in discussion over something. “Break up fights, deal with disputes. You’ll be matched with a more experienced member of the guard for now.” He caught Steve’s eye, his eyebrows arching. “You’re expected to follow their lead.”

Steve nodded. “Understood.” A ball came rolling down the street, and without thinking, he reached down to snag it. A girl came running up the street, her schoolbag hanging over one shoulder, her skirts hitched up well over her knees. Steve tossed the ball to her with a smile, and she caught it one handed. Giving him a gap-toothed grin, she jogged back to where her friends were waiting, the red ribbons at the ends of her braids flapping in the breeze.

“Isn’t that heavy?”

Steve looked up. “What?” 

Rhodes gestured at his shoulder. “The shield. Isn’t it heavy?”

“Oh!” Steve reached up, his fingers wrapping around the strap. He gave it a tug, adjusting the shield on his back. “It’s a lot lighter than it looks.” 

“Right,” Rhodes said, his head cocked to the side. But he was smiling. “I’ve got a patrol to finish. You heading back?”

“I’m actually going to do a little poking around,” Steve said. “While I appreciate the cottage, it-” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck with a slight grimace. “It needs a little work.”

Rhodes laughed. ‘Yeah, last time I passed it, it seemed like it needed a lot more than a ‘little’ work.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And while Sam’s got his good points, he’s not known for his masonry skills.”

“In all fairness to him, neither am I,” Steve admitted. He looked up. The sky was clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. “And as long as the weather stays clear, we’ll be fine.” He glanced at Rhodes. “We’ll make it work.”

“Right,” Rhodes repeated. His fingertips tapped against his bicep. “I’ve got a friend who can be persuaded to pick up an odd job or two, if he’s got the time. Let me know if you need help.”

“Is he any good?” Steve asked.

Rhodes considered that, his eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said at last, “he’s cheap.”

“And that’s nearly as good,” Steve said, making Rhodes laugh. Smiling, Steve gave him a nod. “Thanks. I might just take you up on that.”

Rhodes gave him a wave. “Remember, if you get lost, all roads lead back to the fountain in the square. Eventually.” 

“Comforting,” Steve said, and Rhodes was still laughing as he headed off down the road. Tall and rangy, he moved easily through the crowd, his shoulders squared, pausing here and there to respond to greetings or trade a few words with a merchant. 

Left on his own, Steve shifted the shield higher onto his shoulder. It was lighter than his old one, but it fit just as well against his back, a comforting, centering weight. A well-dressed man brushed past him, barely sparing him a glance, and Steve stepped out of the way.

Still felt like he was out of step. He wondered when, or if, that would change.

Steve wandered through the market, catching snippets of conversation as he passed carts and stalls. Vendors doing their best to sell their wares, buyers gossiping about politics and commerce and their neighbors. A young girl sitting behind a cart piled high with fruit split her attention between her customers and a tall, lanky boy sweeping the street in front of a nearby bakery, flour streaking the legs of his pants. A thin, pale man with small, round glasses sold flowers, a little boy wrapping the bouquets with loops of twine and handing them over with a gap toothed smile. A short, round woman had a massive basket in the crook of her elbow, piled high with eggs. Two young men hovered by the window of a milliner's shop, deep in discussion about the hats on display.

A cluster of acolytes from the grand temple moved through the crowd, clad in pale blue robes. One of them caught Steve’s eye as she passed, giving him a wide smile and a little nod. He nodded back, stepping out of their way. He didn’t remember them being quite so young, or so small; she barely reached his shoulder as she passed.

Of course, he’d been a lot smaller back then.

Shaking off the thought, he kept walking. The crowded streets of the market gave way to the narrower, twisting streets of the old city. The buildings here seemed unstable, unbalanced, new layers added to the old without any consideration for the foundations. What had been small, single story buildings when he was a boy now held extra floors, built on piecemeal where they were needed.

Here, too, people plied their trade, on a smaller scale. A cobbler sat on the street in front of his shop door, enjoying the sunshine. A man walked by at a swift pace, a tray of buns braced on his shoulder. Small stalls clustered against the buildings, half shaded by heavy cloth awnings that had been built into the walls or held up with wooden poles. Beneath them, a tailor mended a ripped pair of pants, a tinker perched amongst his wares, and an old lady sat by a large kettle, stirring the contents with a long handled spoon. A rickety table next to her held stacks of wooden bowls and a loose pile of spoons. She barely spared him a glance before returning to her work, her head bent over the pot.

“Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?”

Steve swung around, confusion sweeping over him as he tried to find the source of the voice.

“Up here.”

He looked up, and found a familiar face grinning down at him. Tony was seated on a small balcony just above Steve’s head, one foot braced on a mass of fabric below him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his vest was hanging open over his white shirt. His head tipped to the side, dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Well?” he asked, one hand swinging idly back and forth, a wrench tapping against the railing like the clapper of a bell. Steve blinked at him, and Tony’s eyebrows arched, his eyes dancing. “The time, my good sir?”

“Oh!” Steve reached into his pocket, pulling out his watch. He looked down at it, and then back up at Tony. “Half past twelve.”

Tony considered that, his eyes narrowing. “Exactly?” He gave the wrench a toss, letting it spin end over end before he caught it and slid it into his pocket.

Steve snapped the pocket watch closed and returned it to his pocket. “Close enough,” he said with a smile. 

Tony shook his head, grabbing the railing with one hand and pulling himself upright, the muscles of his arm pulling taut. “There’s no ‘close enough’ when it comes to timekeeping, sir,” he said, swinging his body up to brace one foot on the railing and the other on the side of the building next door. Precariously balanced between the two, he peered up into the mechanism above his head. The pulley system that allowed the awning to be retracted had clearly failed, and Tony tugged at the knotted cord. “Precision. One should strive for precision.”

Steve took an involuntary step forward, his hand coming up as Tony reached above him, grabbing loop of rope and leaning backwards, his body bowing over the edge of the balcony. “It’s fine, I just had it serviced.” He heard Tony laugh, and Steve did his best not to look at the way Tony’s foot twisted against the smooth surface of the railing. “What are you doing?”

Tony twisted his head around, meeting Steve’s eye for a second before returning to his work. “Fixing it,” he said. He wrapped the rope around his hand and heaved himself upwards, the sole of his boot scraping against the stone as it slid downwards. “Or trying to.” He gave the rope a sharp tug. It didn’t move, and his breath left him in a sigh. “What did you do to this?”

Steve paused, confused, but the elderly lady next to him made a scoffing noise under her breath. “It wouldn’t open,” she said, slamming her ladle against the side of the kettle. She scowled up at Tony as she slapped the cover back in place. “Too sunny today. I need it to work.”

“Yes, but brute force isn’t likely to solve this problem.” Tony’s voice was muffled as he leaned forward, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing as he reached up with his free hand. “It requires…” Tony twisted around, and Steve caught a glimpse of his face, his eyes closed, his lips parted.

He smiled, and pulled his hand back, a smooth, easy gesture, and the mechanism let out a rusty clatter, then the rope wrenched free, tumbling through the gears. Tony, still holding it in one hand, dropped like a rock, his boot kicking free of the wall with a clatter of stones.

Steve lunged forward, leaping up to catch the bottom of the railing. In one fast, smooth movement he threw himself up and over the railing and onto the balcony, his free hand making a desperate grab for Tony. His fingers closed on the fabric of Tony’s shirt an instant before Tony crashed into him, the full weight of his body falling against Steve’s.

Steve rocked backwards, taking the brunt of the hit without difficulty, but the sudden impact of Tony’s body against his sent a shock through his system. For an instant, Steve just stood there, his arms locked tight around Tony’s chest, his feet braced, his heart in his throat. 

And then Tony was pulling free of his grasp, stumbling as he tried to find his footing. Steve reached out, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back to his feet. “Are you all right?”

Tony stared at him, his eyes wide. “You’re… Fast,” he said. He glanced down to the street below, and back up at Steve. “You’re very fast.”

Steve swallowed hard, ignoring the way his pulse was pounding in his ears. “Don’t do that,” he gritted out from between his teeth.

“I’m sorry, do what?” Tony asked. He reached up, and for the first time, Steve realized he was still holding onto Tony’s shirt in a death grip.

Steve forced his fingers to relax. As the fabric slipped through his fingers, it took a remarkable amount of self-control to keep from grabbing it again. “I don’t know,” he gritted out. “Nearly kill yourself?” Tony blinked at him, so obviously confused that Steve just sighed. “You could’ve fallen?”

“Oh.” Tony straightened his shirt, looking down at the street below them. “I mean, technically I did, but it was a controlled sort of fall.” 

Steve stared at him. “What is- A controlled fall?”

“When I know where and when I’ll be landing, that is, if a city guard doesn’t manifest directly below me.” Steve gave him a look, and Tony grinned. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I have fallen from much higher spots, and with a lot less…” He buttoned his vest up, smoothing the fabric into place around his narrow waist. “Finesse. More than once, actually.” He spread his arms wide, his smile bright. “And look. Still alive.”

Steve pressed a hand to his face. “Do you think that’s comforting?” he asked, and he wondered if he sounded as exhausted as he felt.

“I think it’s the truth,” Tony said. “And cold comfort that might be, but the only comfort I can offer.”

Steve opened his mouth, and from below, a demanding voice called up, “Well? Is it fixed?”

Tony broke eye contact with Steve to lean an elbow on the railing. “It’s fixed,” he said, amusement audible in his voice. “Now, be-” Whatever else he was going to say was lost in the clatter of gears and the rustle of fabric. Rope rattled through the pulley next to them, and the awning flapped open, kicking up a cloud of dust as it settled into place.

Tony’s eyes closed. “Gentle,” he said, the word coming out on a sigh, and Steve realized he was smiling.

“It’s fixed!” the lady yelled up at them, and Tony’s shoulders slumped.

“Yes,” he said, leaning over the railing. “Yes, it is, and perhaps we can avoid breaking it again before I even manage to collect my fee?”

“If you fixed it right, I couldn’t break it,” she pointed out, and Tony’s head fell forward. 

Steve choked on a laugh, and Tony gave him a look. “Do not encourage her,” he said, swinging a leg over the railing. He hopped down to the street and stepped aside so Steve could do the same. He dusted his hands off on his legs. “Acceptable?”

“Acceptable,” the old lady said, reaching for the wooden bowl on the top of her stack. She piled rice into it before reaching for her ladle.

“Give him half?” Tony asked, his head tipping in Steve’s direction.

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

Tony gave him a wide, easy smile. “Are you hungry?” he asked, and before Steve could reply, he continued on. “Best fast lunch in the city.” His head tipped forward, and his hair flopped forward. He pushed it back, and there was a flush across his high cheekbones. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

Steve’s lips twitched. “We’ve just met,” he pointed out. “And your first act was to steal from me.”

The old lady chortled, and Tony’s lips twitched. “And how long are you planning on holding that against me?”

“I think at least a week,” Steve told him.

“Good. Let him get away with nothing.” The old lady gave Steve a quick once-over, her dark eyes narrowed. “I’ll give him his own portion,” she said to Tony, giving the contents of the kettle a stir. “And in exchange, next time there’s a storm, you check with me first.” She stabbed a finger at him. “First, you understand?”

Tony inclined his head in a half-bow. “Deal,” he said, extending his hand. She took it with a pleased chuckle of laughter, giving it a firm shake. 

“I can pay for my own meal,” Steve said, but she was already shaking her head as she handed Tony the bowl.

“His word is worth more than your coin,” she said, filling a second bowl with a healthy serving of rice, and pouring a ladle of chopped meat and vegetables over the top. She held it out to Steve with a wide grin. ‘But if you like it, I’ll gladly empty your purse the next time you’re hungry.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He reached for the bowl, but she didn’t let it go.

“It has been a long time since I saw that symbol.” Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. “A very long time.”

Steve went still. “Ma’am?” His eyes darted towards Tony, but he’d already wandered away, pushing a wooden box up against the stone wall of the building across the way. Steve looked back at the old lady. “What are you-”

“The symbol. On your shield. That was the mark of the chosen prince.” She rocked forward, her shoulders down, her chin up. “Where did you get it, boy?”

He reached up, catching the rim of his shield in his hand. “I…” He smiled. “It was given to me,” he said, a truth that sounded like a lie. “I had another. It broke. This was-” His fingers smoothed over the edge, learning the dimensions all over again. “A gift.”

She balanced the bowl between her palms. “It means something. Still. Even after all this time.” She handed him the bowl and turned her attention back to her kettle, steam curling around her face. “Be careful with that shield, boy. I won’t be the only one to remember it.

“And not everyone who remembers will like it.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her head dipped in a nod. “You do that.” Her cheeks creased when she smiled. “Good. Though. Good to see it again.”

Steve turned away, unsettled in a way that he couldn’t quite define. 

Tony kicked a box onto its side with a flick of his foot, and waved a hand at it. “Join me. The finest seats in the city.”

Steve settled down next to him, balancing the bowl on his knee. “Thanks.”

Tony kicked his legs out in front of him, his shoulders braced against the wall. “What was that all about?” he asked, gesturing at the old lady with his spoon.

Steve glanced back at her. “She said she recognized my shield,” he said. Tony craned his head, and Steve resisted the urge to turn the other way, keeping it out of sight.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not one I’ve seen before, what-”

“It was a gift. I didn’t ask where they got the design,” Steve said. He squinted up at the awning. “That doesn’t look much like a clock.”

Tony’s head cocked to the side. “That’s because it’s not,” he said with an easy smile before digging into his food. “But I’m a man of many talents, and you’re seen H+sank’s shop.” He waved his spoon at Steve. “He doesn’t have enough business to support himself, let alone an apprentice.” 1qwesq shook his head. “When it’s slow at the shop, Hank’s well pleased to be rid of me, so I do my best to make myself useful elsewhere.” He leaned back, looking up at the awning with a satisfied smile. “I’m fairly good at fixing things, and in a city like this? There’s always something that needs fixing.”

Steve’s fingers touched his pocket, feeling the solid shape of his watch through the fabric. “Yes. You are.”

Tony looked at him. “Do you have the time?” he asked, laughter running through the words.

“Yes.” Steve turned back to his meal. Like Tony had said, it was excellent. He smiled, dug in. “It’s lunchtime. Eat.”

*

“Another failure.”

Tony ducked, instincts taking over, as paper came fluttering at him. He caught a page, turning it over. “What do you mean ‘another-’”

Ty slammed his hands down on the edge of Tony’s workbench, sending a stack of books crashing to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Another. Failure,” he bit out. “Another useless, worthless-”

Tony leaned back on his stool. “The paper was sound,” he said, almost bored by this. “Did you even bother to read it before you passed it in?”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Ty said. He picked up a random piece of machinery, glaring at it. “Is this mine?”

Tony waved a hand in his direction. “If you want to take over replacing the valves on the Southwest irrigation-” he said, and Ty slammed it back down to the bench. Tony looked at it, resigned. “Not to worry. I can order another one from the foundry if that one’s broken now.”

“The paper-”

Tony scooped up a second page, and a third, scanning the comments. “None of this-” He scowled down at it. “Did Prof Adams start questioning you about-”

“Of course he did!” Ty wrenched the sheets out of his hand, balled them up, and threw them back at him. Tony let it bounce harmlessly off of his head. “And then he said I failed.”

Tony stared at him for a long, silent moment, then turned on his stool, going back to the open journal in front of him. “You really need to read the things you’re passing off as your own,” he said. “So you can, at least, help sell that lie.”

Ty lunged forward, grabbing the journal, and Tony grabbed his wrist, holding on with a death grip. “Don’t you dare,” he said, his chest burning as he met Ty’s eyes. “Unless you’d like to explain to your father what happened to it.”

For a long, painful moment, Ty just stared at him, his face twisted into something dark and ugly. “You ruined it,” he said, and there was an icy edge to his voice now. Something cold and calculating and unsettling. “The way you ruin everything.”

He shook off Tony’s hand, and Tony scooped up the journal, closing it and putting it safely out of reach. “And yet, you’re still down here, asking for help.”

“Telling you that it’s time to earn your damn keep. You might be able to fool-”

“Excuse me, sir.” 

Tony kept a wary eye on Ty, even as Pepper slipped through the workshop door. “Your father is looking for you,” she said, her voice apologetic. “I had thought-”

“Damn him, and damn you,” Ty said, stabbing a finger in Tony’s direction. “We’re not finished with this discussion, you and I.”

“I’m sure we’re not,” Tony said. He stood, crouching down to pick up the crumbled up ball of paper. “We never are.” It wasn’t the last word, because Ty had already left, but it made him feel better anyway. He straightened up, already trying to flatten the pages. Pepper was peering out the door. “Is he-”

“Long gone.” She looked at him. “One of these days, you will push him too far.”

“Mmmm.” Tony reached for his tea cup. “I’m useful.”

“And when he’s angry, he forgets that.” Pepper gave the machine a nervous look. Her voice dropped. “Any progress?”

Tony’s fingers tapped against the cover of the journal. “It’s fixed,” he said, and she looked pale in the low light of the fire. “Or as fixed as it can be, without the stolen part.”

“It wasn’t-”

Tony waved her off. “The missing part, then,” he said. He settled back on the stool, and flipped the small book open, looking for the right page. It was easy enough to find. The charring on the edge made it stand out. “That’s all I need. That’s all I need, to get it working again.”

His fingers traced over the diagram, smoothing along the thin lines of ink. “That’s all I need.”

*

The lights were glowing inside the little cottage, smoke curling from the top of the chimney.

Steve slipped through the gate, pulling it shut behind him. It creaked, the hinges resisting him as he wrestled it back into place. Steve made a mental note of that as he headed up the path to the door. “Hey, Buck,” he said, stepping into the cottage. “Do we have any-”

He stopped. The fire was crackling on the hearth, a heavy iron pot hanging over the flames. The room was filled with the comforting smell of wood smoke and bubbling stew. A loaf of bread was sitting on the wooden table, along with a stack of bowls and a pitcher.

And Shuri was sitting at the table, a spoon halfway to her mouth.

Steve looked at Shuri. Shuri, half hidden behind the big wooden bowl, held very still, her dark eyes wide. Steve set his bag down beside the door and shrugged his shield off of his back. “Buck.”

Bucky leaned out of the kitchen, a tankard in one hand. “Yeah?”

Steve gestured at Shuri. “Buck.”

Bucky looked at Shuri. “What?”

Steve resisted the very real urge to strangle him. “Buck!”

“What?” Bucky repeated, shrugging. “She was hungry! What do you think I’m gonna do, turn her away?”

“I was hungry,” Shuri agreed, her eyes tipping up towards Steve. “Very hungry.”

Steve ignored her. “Yes. You should send her back to the castle. You know. Where I’m certain they have food.”

Shuri made a rude noise and dug her spoon into her stew. “Horrible,” she muttered. “These people are mad. Everything is cooked to death, or sealed in aspic.” Her nose wrinkled up. “Who does these things? Why would they do all this, all this work, to make something that tastes so bad?”

She took a large bite, and chewed with vicious intent. “This.” She bounced the spoon on the edge of the bowl. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” she asked Bucky.

“Not at all,” Bucky said, grinning into his beer.

“And yet, this is so much better.” Her chin came up, and she gave Steve a narrow eyed look. “You send me back there, I will starve.”

Steve sighed as Bucky dropped his tankard to the table and crossed in front of Steve to retrieve his pot from the fire. “I don’t see anyone letting you starve,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice flat. “You’re-” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shuri. You can’t stay here.”

“I am not staying,” she said, and knowing a surrender when she heard one, she went back to the stew. “As soon as I’ve eaten enough to sustain me for the long cold night, I’ll take my leave.” She gave him a puckish grin. “Fair?”

“I’d argue, but I’m guessing I’d also lose,” Steve said, smiling back at her.

“Yeah, you would.” Bucky gave the stones of the hearth a kick, muttering something obscene under his breath as he swung the pot away from the fire. “This whole thing’s coming down on our heads in the middle of the night, you know it is,” he grumbled.

“At this point, it’s a tossup what’ll break first,” Steve said, crouching down next to the fire, “the chimney or your foot.” Bucky aimed another kick at at loose stone and Steve fended him off. “I mean, unless you’re determined to tip the odds.”

“We’d be better off in the stable, and the sooner you admit it, the better we’ll be,” Bucky said, tossing the pot on the table. It rocked on its uneven feet, and Shuri stuck out a foot, bracing it in place. He didn’t seem to notice as he grabbed the ladle. “Less holes in the roof, I’d bet.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said, checking each of the stones on the hearth. More than a few were looser than he’d like, and he settled back on his heels with a sigh. “We can fix it.”

Bucky gave him a look. “Or we could find a place with, I don’t know, intact walls.”

“Walls are fine,” Steve said, reaching for the fireplace poker. He pushed the logs back from the edge. Better safe than sorry.

“They’re not-” Bucky stopped,shoving a hand through his hair. It immediately fell right back into his face. He didn’t seem to notice. “Stevie. Look at this place.”

“I have, and we’ll make a go of it,” Steve said, straightening up. He dusted his hands off on his legs. “You’ve never been afraid of a little hard work before.”

“There’s hard work, and there’s wasted effort,” Bucky said. “And this? Is the latter.”

“It’s no use,” Shuri said, her bowl braced on one upthrust knee. Her spoon tapped against the edge, a quick flicker of movement that caught the firelight. “He can’t be dissuaded.” Bucky muttered something under his breath, and Shuri grinned. “Have I ever told you about the hut we put him in?”

“No,” Bucky said, dropping into a seat across from her. 

“Yes,” Steve said, tossing another log into the fire.

Bucky filled his bowl, picking around the kettle with the ladle to transfer a few prime bits to Shuri’s bowl as well. “Don’t think she has.”

Steve gave him a look. “Yes. She has.”

Bucky took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring, his brow furrowing, and Steve’s head fell back. “Don’t do this,” he said. “James Barnes. Don’t-”

“It’s all so foggy,” Bucky said, with a deliberate wobble to his voice. He reached up, touching his scarred temple with fingers that shook. “I just-” His eyes were huge when he looked back at Steve. “Are you sure? That she’s told me?”

Steve stared him down. “Don’t do this,” he said, his voice blunt. “It’s not funny.”

“I mean, I have to trust you,” Bucky said. “I can’t-” He stopped, his eyelids fluttering. “Remember.”

“You’re an ass,” Steve said. “And I know what you’re doing.”

Bucky tried to paste an innocent look on his face, and it was such a failure that Shuri was reduced to giggling into her cupped hands. “Cry,” Shuri whispered, as if Steve wasn’t right there, as if he couldn’t hear every bit of this. Steve gave her a look, and she leaned forward, her expression gleeful. “I think its working.”

“It’s not working,” Steve said. “Buck-” Bucky turned big, sad eyes in his direction, and anything Steve had been thinking of saying evaporated in an instant. He sighed. “Don’t cry.”

Bucky blinked hard, turning his face towards the fire. “Wasn’t going to cry,” he said, his voice rough. “I just… Want to remember.” He pressed a hand to his eyes, going quiet for a moment. Steve stared him down, unmoved. Bucky peeked at him from between his fingers. “I just think hearing the story might help.”

Steve threw his hands in the air. “Fine. If it will help,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. He headed for the kitchen, dusting his hands on his legs. He heard Bucky chuckle and reached out, smacking him on the back of the head as he passed. “Ass.”

Bucky slumped low in his chair, legs thrown out in front of him. “Right,” he said, cradling his bowl in one hand. He sounded gleeful. “Storytime.”

Shuri rocked forward in her seat, her spoon sweeping through the air. “So. The first mistake was letting him into the city at all. I tried to warn them, I want that noted. That we have strict rules about letting outsiders into Wakanda, and those rules are in place for a reason.”

“Oh, you warned them, did you?” Steve asked her, his lips twitching, as he snagged a jug of beer from the shelf.

She gave him an arch look, her chin in the air. “Who is telling this story, you or me? Because at this point in the story, you-” She pointed her spoon at him. “Were frozen in a giant block of ice. Which is bad enough, but it was a magical block of ice, so....” Her voice trailed away.

“That was my first mistake,” Steve agreed.

Bucky snorted. “Sure as fuuuuu-” His eyes darted towards Shuri. “Heck wasn’t.”

Shuri looked at Steve. “Did he just try to avoid a bad word?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

“He’s a gentleman,” Steve said, and had to skip to the side when Bucky tried, and failed, to kick him in the knee. Grinning, he dropped back into his seat. “So I was in a block of ice.”

She spread her hands. “Biiiiiig block of ice,” she agreed. “So, you can see why the border guards made an exception and let them bring you back. Why they thought we needed a dead boy in ice that would not melt? I have no idea. But it was just interesting enough to let them haul you all the way down river, straight to the heart of the city. 

“And then, because we are a people of limitless imagination and almost limitless resources, everyone and their god-forsaken brother started trying to figure out how to get you OUT of it.” She paused. “Not me, though. I want that noted.” She tapped a finger on the table. “I was not interested in the prize in the middle of a magical block of ice, in that it was a dead body.”

“Less than impressive,” Bucky said.

“Terrible,” she agreed.

“Except I wasn’t dead,” Steve said, filling his cup, and then Bucky’s.

“I think we can be forgiven for not considering that possibility,” she mused. “Again. Ice. Big block of ice.”

“Magical ice,” Bucky said.

“Yes,” she said. “And to be honest, we’re still not sure what broke the spell. Whether it was something we did, or just time running short on the spell’s effectiveness, but one day, it just-” She stopped, her eyebrows pulling up tight. As quickly as it had come, the expression disappeared. “Cracked,” she said, turning her attention to her meal. “Right through the heart of it.”

“And that’s when you realized he was still alive?” Bucky asked. The fire crackled behind him, and he gave it a suspicious look, but didn’t stand. 

“About then. And in the space of a single day, everyone’s in a total uproar,” she said, wrapping her hands around her mug. “And there are all these arguments about what to do with him, how to get rid of him, and one big part of the council just votes to drag him into the jungle, and leave him there. If he’s alive, he’s on his own.”

“Makes sense,” Bucky said, nodding. “He’s tough. Probably would’ve made it.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence, Buck,” Steve said, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, and reaching for the pot.

“You’re welcome,’ Bucky said, around a mouthful of stew. He swallowed. “But?” he prompted Shuri.

“Buuuuuut,” she said, drawing the word out, “my brother is a soft touch, and he puts his foot down. We brought him here, it was nothing of the stranger’s doing, and that meant we were responsible for him. There would be no tossing him into a boat, shoving him down the river and wishing him well.” She looked at Steve, her teeth flashing in a smile. “That was another plan.”

“Seems like a pretty good plan,” Steve said. He held up the ladle, and she handed over her bowl for a refill.

“Better than most.” She leaned her elbows on the table, her chin braced on her folded hands. “But they decide at last that we’d bring him out to the grasslands outside of the city, assign a few guards to keep an eye on him, and make him as uncomfortable as possible.” 

Steve handed her the bowl and she took it with a grin. “Then, after a few days, we’d have a few solders dressed up to look like traders pass by, and they would offer to take him with them to the coast, where he could catch a boat, and he would be free of us and we would be free of him, and that?” She dusted her hands off against each other. “Would be that.”

“So a few men gathered up a herd of goats, and went out into the grasslands and built-” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “Would you call it a hut?” she asked Steve.

“I would call it fine,” he said, and Bucky started to laugh. Under the table, Steve kicked him in the ankle.

“How bad was it?” Bucky asked, moving his legs out of reach.

“I rode out to see it,” Shuri said. “And I looked at this… This mess that they had made, and it was like, every one of my ancestors rose up as one to HOWL at me in the back of my head.” She hunched forward, grinning. “Like, my Grandmother was right behind me, hissing in my ear, ‘city living has made you SOFT,’ because it was-” She shook her head. “This one structure, this one lump of soft mud, and clay, and straw, like a lean-to with a hole under it? This one thing undid centuries of our history, centuries of engineering and architecture and-”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Steve told her, trying not to smile.

“Our entire civilization looked at that hut and collapsed,” she said, and Bucky was laughing out loud now, his head thrown back, a hand pressed to his eyes. Shuri leaned forward, her spoon cutting through the air. “From SHAME.”

“It was not that bad,” Steve repeated, turning his attention back to his stew.

Shuri looked at Bucky. “It was worse,” she said, her voice dire.

“Never known you to do things by half measure, so I’m gonna believe that,” Bucky said, reaching for his mug. “So you’ve got a hut…”

“We’ve got a hut, and half a dozen guards and a couple of dozen goats,” she said. “And their job, their duty, was to keep him alive and that was it. Make sure he doesn’t starve or die of dehydration, make sure that when the ‘traders’ came by, that he would be grateful to go along with them.”

“So the council has him loaded onto a stretcher, and they carry him out there, and toss him into the hut, and all go back to the city to congratulate themselves and be smug, which is what they do on almost a daily basis, so, not much of a change there.” She took a couple of quick bites of the stew. “And then everyone settles in to wait.

“The first group of traders goes out a few days later. And before sunset of the next day, they have returned to the city, right back to the council chambers. And they say to my brother, ‘he will not go.’” She twisted in her seat, one leg swinging under her. “Which. Fine. We had not waited long enough, we miscalculated, he was probably too weak to think of a trip like that. Simple miscalculation. So several days later, another group of soldiers goes off to try again.

“Next day, they are back. ‘He will not go.’”

Bucky was grinning at Steve. Steve just focused on eating his stew. “Really?” Bucky said. “That’s shocking.”

“I hate you,” Steve told him.

“So two weeks pass, we’re running short of soldiers that haven’t already made a try at this,” Shuri said. “There are arguments amongst those who have gone and the council. None of the guards we put on him have returned.” She paused. “It was a particularly slow time for gossip, so you can imagine, this was all anyone was talking about.

“Oh, I can imagine,” Bucky said.

“So my brother finally says, ‘I will go,’ and that is a second uproar, everyone-” She drew the word out to about twice as many syllables as it should’ve had. “Everyone had an opinion, and most of them were loud, but I think he was curious by then.”

She paused. “Also Nadia was away on a mission and he was pouting, so…”

“Understandable,” Bucky said. His bowl was empty and he was just sitting, an easy smile on his face, his arms folded on the table.

“But as she was not there to protect him, I went instead,” Shuri said. “I knew she’d want me to.”

“Also you’re nosy,” Steve said.

She let ut a mock gasp, her hand pressed to her chest. “I went out of a sense of duty, to my kingdom, my people, and my brother,” she said. “Also to keep him from bringing you BACK into the city, because from the moment he headed out, that’s what everyone assumed would be happening.”

Bucky glanced at Steve. “Was that what happened?”

Steve shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth and made a big show of chewing. Laughing, Bucky turned back to Shuri. “So you set out?”

“So we set out,” she agreed. “And in an hour or so, we are well into the grasslands. With a half dozen very embarrassed men, and a few dozen very frustrated goats. Because the goats? Knew where the city was and they were ready to get back to their comfortable paddocks. Through this comes the King of Wakanda, who is well aware that he is being judged by a vast array of goats.”

She leaned forward. “Judged, and found lacking.”

“Well, I mean-” Steve shrugged. “Goats.”

“Goats,” Shuri agreed. “But my brother finds one of the guards, and asks him, what has happened. Why has the stranger not left? And we are told, ‘he wants to repay his debt.’”

“Of course he fucking does,” Bucky mumbled into his beer.

“We are told, he is offering to help watch the goats. He is helping build fences. He is insisting on taking a shift to guard the camp.” She paused. “And the guards do not know what to do with this. This… Was not the plan.

“But my brother is, of course, fascinated enough that he wants to meet the man who came out of the ice, so once again, against my advice-”

“You’re coming off really well in this story,” Steve said with a smile.

“Because I was the voice of reason here, as I always am,” she told him, and Bucky was laughing into his beer again. She ignored that. “So. Against my advice, he goes over to the hut. And finds this one-” She waved at Steve. “Was trying to fix it.” 

Bucky looked at Steve. Steve shrugged. “Just trying to patch a hole or two,” he said, resigned.

Bucky looked back at Shuri. “He was covered in mud and straw and was trying to prop the whole mess up using his own shoulder, trying and failing,” Shuri said. She grinned at Steve. “Broad shoulders. Not broad enough.”

“I had a plan,” Steve said, staring at the ceiling.

“So did we, and you ruined it, because here is my idiot of a brother, charmed into stripping down to his waist and trying to HELP you,” Shuri said. She looked at Bucky. “The two of them. Covered in clay and mud and dung and whatever else they can try to make this thing into less than what it is, which, I remind you, is a hole in the ground with a mud lump put half over it.

“And T’Challa is talking to him, and it’s clear to everyone involved that this is a disaster,” Shuri said. “Because he’s getting attached. I’m looking at the guards, and they’re going-” She made a comical shrugging gesture, and pointed both hands at Steve, then went back to shrugging. “And I’m just waiting for the inevitable, as this one explains that he’s quite pleased with his little hut.” She templed her fingers in front of her. “What was it you said?”

“I don’t remember,” Steve lied.

“I think it was something like, ‘it’s cool in the daytime and warm at night and it’s just the right size for me,’” Shuri said, and Bucky buried his face in his folded arms. Shuri grinned at him. “And my brother looks at him, and looks at the hut, and he’s covered in half-dry clay, and a goat is screaming at him, and we’ve sent about a third of an army out here, one and two at a time, trying to dislodge him, and-”

She grinned. “I could see the exact moment he just-” Her head tipped to the side. “Gave up and adopted him.”

“I mean, and I speak from experience, it’s less trouble when you just give up and accept the inevitable,” Bucky said, staring into space.

“I was doing fine on my own,” Steve told him, and Bucky made a very rude noise under his breath. Steve gave him a look. “Didn’t ask you for help.”

“No, as a matter of fact, you bit me,” Bucky said, pushing himself to his feet. He collected his bowl, and tossed Steve’s on top of it. “Still got the scar.”

“Really.” Shuri looked at him, her eyes wide. “Where did-”

“Thanks for the story, your highness, time for you to be off,” Bucky said, taking her bowl out of her hands. “Before Okoye comes looking for you.”

She grinned. “Looking for you, you mean,” she said, with a toss of her head. “I have nothing to fear there.”

“I think that’s one lioness who knows how to handle a wayward cub, but if you wanna take your chances, the stable’s just out back,” Bucky said, taking Steve’s mug out of his hand. “You can wash the dishes before you fight the horses for a warm corner.”

Her mouth pursed. “When you put it that way…” She stood, and crossed her arms over her chest, her head dipping in a show of respect. “Your highness.”

Steve’s eyes rolled up. “Your highness,” he echoed, giving her a bow.

“The fate of entire countries hang on the two of you,” Bucky said, leaning his shoulder against the kitchen doorway. “May the Goddess have mercy on all of us.” He straightened up. “Let’s go, Princess. I’ll walk you back to the palace.”

She gave a snort. “Thank you. No.”

“You’re welcome. Yes,” Bucky said, straightening up. He nodded towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Shuri let out a theatrical groan. “If you follow me, I will stab you.”

“I mean. You can try,” Bucky said, herding her towards the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Steve. “Dishes?”

“On it,” Steve said, watching the fire. “Be careful.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”


End file.
